Harry Johnson and the Lunatic Scientist
by Doghead Thirteen
Summary: Fits between Headmaster's Socks and Deathtrap Girl. It's summer 1997, Harry's got a job to do, the Blink Dog is in for a Hell of a ride, and Hermione's about to get a look at what life as an interstellar mercenary is really all about...
1. Chapter 1

CAUTION! To understand this work of fanfiction, you will need to have read the first book in the Harry Johnson saga; Harry Johnson and the Headmaster's Socks, which can be found right here on this website, under my author profile of course. Otherwise it will not make much of any sense.

I'm serious about this, people; this is a _very_ alternate universe. If you've just read a couple chapters of Headmaster's Socks, or you haven't read any of it, I strongly suggest you go back and fill yourself in on the information you'll need to make sense of this thing. Don't bitch me out if you didn't.

Reading Biker Half Rewrite and the Top Dog Shorts will also help you completely understand what's going on; once again, both can be found under my author profile. Biker Half Rewrite's plot is interlinked with the Enter the Fnords plot starting at the end of Deathtrap Girl, and the shorts contain varied pieces of useful background material that I couldn't think where else to fit.

Done that? Cool; welcome back for more Top Dog.

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**This ain't no self-insert fic.**

**This ain't no slash fic neither.**

**This is Top Dog.**

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Dudley Darren Dursley, age seventeen and a half, was excited.

He'd been through the wringer since his parents got busted. First off, he was staying at his aunt's place. While he used to really like her, that had come to an abrupt end a few days after he'd moved in.

You see, he'd met this girl back in August, and to his absolute astonishment she actually liked him.

Dudley was seriously overweight and about as attractive as a horse's arse, and he knew it. His cousin had only ever seen the worst side of Dudley; but Dudley D Dursley had another side. He was fat and a bit dense; he'd got into the bullying game because he was constantly bullied himself, and when dealing with the many kids larger and better at being violent than him, comedy had been his only defence. It would have seriously surprised Harry to discover that Dudley was regarded as one of the funniest boys alive at the fancy school he went to.

Then he met this girl. Her name was Reyna Chang. Her father was involved in the Chinese embassy in London, and she was drop dead gorgeous, to the point that most of the boys in school were scared witless in case they offended her while most of the girls hated her for being cuter than they were.

So it ended up with the odd situation that Dudley Darren Dursley, fatass jerk Dudley, used to being shot down in flames by every girl in sight, had been the first person in the whole school to extend a hand of friendship to the beautiful and extremely lonely Chinese girl.

This led to the odd situation that Dudley now had a new best mate. His old best mate, Peirs, had insulted Reyna, calling her 'a stinking nip'. Dudley happened to be a halfway passable boxer, and he had proceeded to break Peirs' nose with extreme prejudice; he privately admitted to himself that he'd probably have killed Peirs if Reyna hadn't pulled him off. Absolutely _nobody_ insulted the only girl who'd ever paid Dudley any attention worthy of the title.

So he and Reyna ended up hanging out a lot. Reyna happened to practise an esoteric form of karate; she could easily have defended herself from Peirs (not that Dudley knew at the point of the fight) and that was how she'd managed to pull the overweight boy off his former best mate, but she took Dudley's furious defence of her in the spirit it was intended.

Then of course there'd been the whole thing with his parents landing in the can and him being shipped off to Marge Dursley's place. He still went to the same school; he now just commuted from the opposite direction.

Problem was, Marge Dursley was more racist than Peirs. Dudley tried to talk to his dad about it during visiting hours, and discovered that Vernon Dursley was even more racist than Marge; he tried his mother and had the exact same reaction. It turned out that both his parents and his aunt were involved in the Ku Klux Klan, a discovery that seriously offended Dudley, who was by this time utterly smitten with Reyna Chang.

And that was when Dudley Darren Dursley came to an epiphany of sorts. That was when he realised that he really didn't like his parents, or his aunt. Reyna was the most perfect girl he'd ever met – and they wanted to kill her because of the colour of her skin, a colour Dudley found remarkably pretty.

And that was what led Dudley to do what he was now doing. He'd spent enough time whining that his aunt had let him get his motorbike license and given him the money to buy and insure a bike; he'd chosen the most disreputable old brute of a machine he could find and legally ride, just to get up his family's noses. He'd found an old Honda CB250 Superdream going for a song at the sole bike shop in Little Whingeing. It was twelve years old and looked thoroughly rotten, but Reyna had drummed the presence of mind to check it's mechanicals into Dudley, so he knew the engine, drivetrain and electrics were in superb condition, and the frame as straight as the day it left the factory; there wasn't one dot of rust on the whole bike. The fact his aunt had given him five grand and he'd picked up the bike for three hundred quid helped; he had fully comprehensive insurance on the thing.

It was a seriously mean piece of machinery; it had a sportsbike fuel tank, a minimal seat composed of duct tape and tennis balls, twin headlamps with steel grilles over them, exhausts with totally insufficient silencers, and this awesome mural of an angel in chains which had been revealed on that curvaceous fuel tank when Dudley cleaned his new purchase; there was a rudimentary supercharger attached to the engine, and on close examination Dudley had realised that it had a nitrous oxide cylinder hidden under the seat that the bike shop's owner (who was blatantly a know-nothing) didn't know was there. Closer examination after he'd bought it had led him to the startling realisation that the entire engine was hand-made out of solid titanium, with 'R J Saotome 1990' filed into the block where the engine number should be.

Whoever owned that bike before Dudley was a damn fool to part with it. Either that or they must have got themselves an absolute beast of a bike to replace it, in which case they were one cool cat and they should have sold it for more. It had a Q-plate, which had helped lower the price, but Dudley didn't care one jot about that.

And now, seated upon the monster of a 250 he'd acquired for only three hundred pounds, he had the few possessions he actually gave a damn about on his back and was running away from home. His destination? The Chinese embassy in London, and the only person who'd ever given a rat's ass about the real Dudley D Dursley.

He wished he knew how to contact his scary-as-Hell cousin; he had realised that much of everything his parents had ever told him was wrong, and he had a gut feeling that their opinion of Harry counted.

Besides, Reyna would like it if he did the honourable thing and apologised.

He roared on through Surrey, the miles to London churning past beneath his wheels and the words of an old Alice Cooper song running through his head.

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**Disclaimer: I'm serious about reading Headmaster's Socks. And not Sirius, either; he hasn't been introduced yet.**

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**Top Dog: Enter the Fnords**

**Intermission 1: Harry Johnson and the Lunatic Scientist**

**A Doghead13 / United Galaxies fanfic**

**Written & produced by Calum J 'Doghead13' Wallace**

**Preread by KuroNeko, who caught several slipups.**

**Brought to you by Hairy Scottish Git Productions, GMBH**

**This is not a drill.**

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**Chapter 1: The Obligatory Gringotts Chapter**

**(In which our hero has a chat with a goblin)**

An hour later, Dudley was just pulling onto Charing Cross Road when he received an abrupt and rather substantial surprise in the form of a Toyota Corolla coming roaring up behind him with a massive low-slung black monster of a bike in hot pursuit; a couple of guys were leaning out the Corolla's windows and trying to get a bead on the black bike with the sub-machine guns they were holding. Just as they got level with one very startled Dursley, the black bike's rider drew a massive slab-sided handgun and blew the car in half; Dudley had to swerve violently to avoid the wreck as it went through the front window of a shop. He just managed to come to a halt without dropping his bike; as he did so, the other rider skidded his massive machine sideways to a stop, swung off, and sauntered over to the shattered wreck that was sticking out of the seriously damaged window display.

He casually hauled someone out of the wreckage and threw the injured man into the street.

"My employers warned you, Skorzeny." The biker said, drawing a massive straight-bladed katana-like sword with an odd hilt, and Dudley immediately realised with an immense shock who this was. "But did you listen? The fuck you did; that's where I come in. Have fun in Hell, you sick sack of shit."

Then he hacked Skorzeny's head off, smirked at Dudley, sheathed his sword having wiped it clean on Skorzeny's trousers, stuffed the disembodied head into his jacket, swung back onto his gigantic bike, and roared off as the scream of sirens alerted Dudley to the approach of plentiful cops.

"Spock?" Dudley whispered, staring after the massive machine as it ducked into a side-street. He had no idea what his cousin was doing blowing up cars and beheading people in London, but he was absolutely certain that it was indeed Harry Potter.

He was still sat there on his idling Honda gawping blankly in the direction Harry had gone when the cops arrived.

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Hermione looked up from her laptop as Harry came clattering back into the road-train's living room. He had an odd bulge under his jacket, which smelt rather bloody.

"Where were you off to?" she asked.

Harry smirked.

"Just had to take care of a little business." He said, picking up the phone; he dialled a long number, waited while it rang through, and said, "Job's done, I'll be around to collect my pay in about twenty minutes." waited while the person at the other end replied, then put the phone down.

"Uh…" Hermione said.

"Don't worry about it." Harry told her. "I just reduced the galactic population of Nazis by one former SS officer and a couple of other drooling thugs. Seems Skorzeny offended a certain very important gentleman by attempting to kill someone said gentleman is rather fond of, and that means half a million in easy money for me. Oh well, all in a day's work."

"Oh." Hermione said.

"Well, guess it's next stop Daigon Alley." Harry continued. "I gotta go get my wonga, you can't get harder cash than goblin gold. Wanna come along? Gringotts is well worth seeing."

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Gringotts Merchant Bank proved to be a tall, somewhat Victorian-looking worked stone building on Daigon Alley, fronted by an oddly Greco-Roman atrium supported by a multitude of finely-crafted stone pillars.

The doors were massive and composed of what looked to be solid gold; a pair of ferocious-looking if short men flanked them. These men had craggy faces, lantern jaws, beady eyes, long pointed ears, leathery brown skin, and wispy white hair; they were about five feet tall, and clad in ornate but armoured-looking jet black military uniforms. Each stood at flawless attention, so still that Hermione at first mistook them for statues; it was only when one blinked that she realised they were in fact people. In some ways, they reminded her of the resplendent guards around Buckingham Palace, stood there with their assault rifles held to port and impassive expressions.

There was a friendly notice-board beside the doors, bearing the message 'For your protection, please do not attempt to rob Gringotts', along with several dozen cartoon burglars covered by 'no-smoking' style red cross-outs. Hermione got an odd feeling that those cheerful little symbols were in fact grave markers.

On entry, they arrived in an equally Victorian cum Greco-Roman foyer. To the left was an asture waiting area with lines of uncomfortable-looking chairs; to the right were queues of impatient-looking persons of assorted species awaiting the attention of assorted tellers of the same species as the guards outside the door; these little people were presumably goblins.

With a start, Hermione realised that the cheery-looking Asian gentleman at the back of one queue was in fact Jackie Chan.

Harry sauntered over to the shortest queue, and Hermione stuck beside him. They were waiting for a while – nearly half an hour; the place was packed.

At last, they found themselves at the head of the queue, and Harry (who had for some reason put on a coweled cape before they went to the bank) swaggered forwards.

"Name?" the goblin snapped as Harry arrived.

"Stormclaw." Harry stated, causing the goblin to immediately look up with an expression of complete and utter shock on his craggy face; a flash of terror crossed that face as he saw the long-eared lizard-eyed man standing before him, but it was gone almost as soon as it had appeared, replaced by a politely attentive look with fear visible around the edges.

"Please accept my apologies, Lord Stormclaw." He said, rising to his feet and favouring Harry with a deep bow; a stunned silence eclipsed the queues of customers. "My name is Ratchetcrank; how may I be of assistance?"

"I'm here as per my little arrangement with the Chairman." Harry said

"Chairman Shatteraxe will gladly see you at once if that is your desire. Do you wish your handmaiden to accompany you?"

"Perhaps better not." Harry said. "It might be convenient if she were entertained in privacy for the duration of my visit."

"My pleasure, Lord Stormclaw." Ratchetcrank said with another bow. "Mr Slackhammer! Show Lord Stormclaw to Chairman Shatteraxe's office at once. If you would accompany me, ma'am?"

A goblin (presumably Mr Slackhammer) arrived, bowed to Harry, and ushered him through into a hallway; Ratchetcrank showed Hermione into a different hall, and from there into a palatial study.

"Have a seat, madam." He said, gesturing to a comfortable-looking armchair. "Would you like a little tea?"

"Yes please." Hermione said. Ratchetcrank smiled, poured two cups of tea from the glass service that was resting on a sidetable, presented her with a cup with a flourish, and settled himself in another armchair with the other cup. He took a sip and thoughtfully rolled it around in his mouth.

Hermione nervously sipped at the tea, finding it to be piping hot and a strong spicy flavour that took a moment's getting used to.

"Kyushu North Field Gold from the crop of '28." Ratchetcrank said, holding his cup up and examining it against the light. "A pleasant vintage; some say it is a little too mild, but I find its bouquet has a certain something that many stronger teas lack, and its colour is flawless." He smiled at Hermione's expression. "That said, goblin tea is an acquired taste that many of your species never take the time to learn to appreciate. Now then, my dear. I find myself eager to ask you a few little questions; your master has a long and intriguing history with goblinkind, and I had never expected to see him take a human retainer such as yourself; it is good to see Lord Stormclaw take a healthy interest in a young lady. Might I know your name?"

"I'm Hermione Granger." Hermione said.

"Aha, yes indeed, your name is familiar to me." Ratchetcrank said with a nod. "The niece by marriage of Seneschal Stanley Scott, correct?"

"Yeah." Hermione confirmed. "Y'know, I never really realised Uncle Stan was famous or anything."

"Notorious would be the word; his is a remarkable history." Ratchetcrank mused. "And speaking of history, do you know of the history between my species and yours?"

"Not really." Hermione said. "I mean, I've heard there's been a lot of trouble in the past, but Professor Meiuu just mentioned that as background when she was talking about Grindlewold and the Second World War."

"Yes indeed, it is pleasant to see history being taught at Hogwarts that is not fixated on the so far unsuccessful guerrilla operations your kind refers to as 'goblin rebellions'." Ratchetcrank said, his tone making it clear he found the term distasteful. "However, I am certain you are unaware of the true reasons behind those operations. Likewise, I am certain that you have noticed certain unusualness about the appearance of goblinkind as compared to your own species."

"Well, yeah, but so what? A person's still a person no matter what they look like or what size they are. I mean, sure, to me you guys look a bit weird, but I guess I must look pretty strange to a goblin, and what with being friends with Tara, S'tarak'hai, Fleggitt, and Harry, well, weird is pretty run-of-the-mill for me these days."

Ratchetcrank nodded. "Indeed. I am glad you share that view with your most excellent master; I must remember to congratulate him on his acquisition. But I digress. Surely you are aware of the letter of the asinine Treaty of Roswell?"

"I've heard of it, but I've never read the details." Hermione admitted.

"Well, perhaps I should illuminate you." Ratchetcrank said with a nod. "The letter of that treaty makes it illegal for persons of obvious non-human appearance to be seen in public upon this planet outside of certain areas, such as here in Daigon Alley. My kind have been resident upon this world for in excess of two hundred millennia; the first goblins were created by the Adeptus Mechanicus in the dying days of what is now called the Old Atlantean Empire, as guardians of the innermost vaults and secrets of the Ordo Malleus – but I digress once more. We have gladly shared our homeworld with your ancestors since before your species crawled from the ruins of the Imperium, and in fact we aided that crawl, and the crawl that brought you forth from the collapse of the Hardak Dynasty; as the distant descendents of our masters, the human species has a most valid claim to the planet you call Earth, and in fact this whole star system. Yet your kin seem to regard us as unwelcome transgressors upon this planet; they have made it a crime for us to leave these few small enclaves. The Treaty of Roswell grants the International Auror Department the power to arrest any man, woman, or child whom they regard as 'visibly non-human', even based on something as elementary as the colour of the unfortunate individual's eyes."

"I didn't know that." Hermione said, shocked. "It's disgusting!"

"A sentiment shared by your master, and by Chairman Shatteraxe." Ratchetcrank said with a nod. "Sadly, this situation predates that treaty; since the time of William the Conqueror, we goblins have not even been permitted citizenship; we are treated as little better than slaves by the Ministry. The tales told to human children of goblins paint us as vicious monsters; the very name 'Goblin' is treated as one to be despised."

"That's horrible." Hermione said.

"As horrible as the apartheid practised by the blood purists against you and your fellow humans of mundane birth." Ratchetcrank said with a nod. "That is in a nutshell the source of our grievances against the Wizengamot and all it's many and myriad tools and toadies."

"So… how does Harry know you guys?" Hermione asked.

"Aha, that is a long and most intriguing tale." Ratchetcrank told her. "I cannot honourably tell you all of it; your master is among our most valuable customers, and I am unsure of how much he would be willing for you to hear; much of it is unsuitable for the ears of a young lady. Suffice to say that he and Chairman Shatteraxe have known one another for some time; I believe they met during the operation within South America that earned Chairman Shatteraxe the gold to seize his current post; courtesy of your master he had the astounding fortune to discover the ruins of El Dorado, and with those riches he was able to buy the services of many mercenaries, but that is a tale for another time. Your master was instrumental in Chairman Shatteraxe's ascension to power, and he has staunchly supported the Chairman's struggle to win equal rights for all species ever since that remarkable chain of events. That has lent him extensive credibility among goblinkind; the simple fact that, although barely into his first millennium, he has succeeded in winning a fortune unequalled by any within this system lends him further respect, and then you do of course have the fact that he is a dragon; our kind and the children of Arcadia have a long tradition of cooperation. Certainly few other peoples recognise the intrinsic value of cold hard cash as well as we goblins; your master's draconic kin are the foremost of that small number." He pursed his lips. "Perhaps I should tell you of the prophecy that surrounds his coming… There has only once been a true seer of my kind. Many centuries ago, she prophesized that there would one day come one born not of goblin who would bring equality to our people, end our ancient struggle, and bring us once more the freedom to walk the many roads of this ancient and glorious world. Chairman Shatteraxe searched all his life for that One; it is his belief that on the day that he met Lord Stormclaw, that search was over. I am unsure, but I do believe that your master has the potential to become that One."

"Wow… sometimes it seems like Harry can't even buy a break." Hermione mused; Ratchetcrank inclined his head.

"Indeed it does; that young man's destiny is intriguingly complex. In less than four short centuries, he has seen and done so many things; he has walked paths no being has trod in many millennia. Though he may be little more than a boy, he numbers some of the richest and most powerful beings in this universe among his allies, and his fortune is remarkable indeed; he is living demonstration of what an honest mercenary soldier can truly aspire to."

"So… what's you guys take on Dark Lords and such like?"

"Voldemort," Ratchetcrank said, making it sound like the word itself was dirty and might contaminate his mouth, "Is bad for business. Ask yourself this question, my dear lady; how long do you think that power-mad lunatic would allow a corporation such as Gringotts to remain in the hands of the non-magi he so despises? His agenda is built entirely upon blood purism and human-supremacism; how long would he allow a 'mere' goblin to manage his finances were he to win his war?"

"Not long?" Hermione asked; it was more a rhetorical question than anything else.

"Indeed." Ratchetcrank said with a nod. "We cannot publicly take sides in the unfortunate situation that looms across the horizon for our ancient world; if we were seen as anything but completely neutral, our business would be severely damaged. But what we can do is secretly aid the people we wish to see victorious, then seize the assets of the losing side; a most profitable situation, both for Gringotts and for our allies."

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"Announcing Lord Stormclaw the Magnificent of Kendarat!" Slackhammer declared, bowing.

"Ah, my thanks Mr Slackhammer." The elderly goblin behind the desk said, rising to his feet. "May your days be many and profitable, Harry. Take a seat, take a seat. I trust your little operation went well?"

"Without a hitch." Harry said, and hauled a human head out of his jacket; this he placed on the desk, then he sat down.

Shatteraxe picked the head up, examined it, looked it in the eyes, and said, "Laugh that one off you bastard."

"Making the galaxy a better place – one worthless fuck at a time." Harry remarked with a feral grin; Shatteraxe nodded gravely.

"So. The final SS officer." He said. "At long last, the final buzzard of the Third Reich is no more, and I shall sleep sounder for it. Otto Skorzeny's many crimes against goblinkind had gone unpunished for far too long, and it brings me a certain level of pleasure to pay for his departure from this mortal coil." He put the head back down and placed a fat briefcase on the desk. "And here is the remaining quarter million of your fee."

Harry nodded, swiftly counted the money within – a quarter of a million New Australian dollars, in unmarked used notes – then sat back with a nod, placing the briefcase on the floor beside his seat.

"That's all in order; pleasure doing business with you."

Shatteraxe smiled, sat back, and steepled his fingers. "I have another little job you might perhaps be interested in? This is an extraction operation; a rather unique individual recently fell into the greasy talons of the Eastern Rim Alliance Psi Corps, and the client expressed her desire to see said young lady removed from those black-clad ghouls area of influence."

"Sounds simple enough; what's the catch?" Harry asked.

"The young lady in question has a supernova elemental bonded to her soul. Her twin sister is also to be retrieved, and if at all possible their father as well; the twin and father are currently in Psi Corps custody in Ironforge City, while the primary target is on the loose somewhere on Azeroth; she should be relatively easy to trace as she is currently the target of the biggest manhunt in Psi Corps history."

Harry was silent for a long moment.

"What's the pay?"

"Untraceable bullion, of the precious metal of your choice, to the value of precisely one billion Galleons; half now half on completion, to be delivered to the location of your choice, paid from the account of the client; one Doctor Washuu Hakubi." Shatteraxe said.

"So Washuu wants to play with the most dangerous time-bomb in the galaxy, huh? Well, she of all people ought to know what she's doing, and having something that destructive in hands as stupid as the Psi Pigs wouldn't be a good idea." Harry mused. "I'll take the job."

"Excellent; the details are within this dossier. How would you prefer your payments?" Shatteraxe asked, handing Harry a thick folder, which he immediately picked up and began leafing through.

"Deliver one quarter in Galleons directly to my mansion on Kendarat, my household staff will arrange things from there. Deposit the rest spread evenly across the Gringotts accounts of all my spare identities; make it an even mix of gold, latinum, mithril and rhenium, all in unproofed standard bars. Make the connection between my accounts and Washuu's account as difficult to trace as you can. Run the quarter billion Galleons to Kendarat as if it's a normal Gringotts fund transfer; I'd prefer it to look like I got paid a hundred twenty five million now and another hundred twenty five million on completion, that way unwanted attention will hopefully be drawn away from the other payment groups by Gringotts publicly shunting a quarter billion to a certain dragon."

Shatteraxe grinned; it wasn't a pretty sight.

"So it is said, so shall it be done."

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The door swung open and Harry came stalking into the room; Ratchetcrank leapt to his feet and bowed; Harry nodded to the goblin, then turned his attention to Hermione.

"Well, no rest for the wicked." He said. "Time to get mobile, preferably before the Dog drops into the Azeroth Cluster."

"What are you talking about?" Hermione blankly asked, standing up as Harry headed back towards the door.

"I'm saying I've got a job to get done, and to pull it off I'm going to need assistance of the sort Bruce Walker can supply." Harry said.

"Huh?" Hermione blankly asked. Harry stopped dead in his tracks and spun round to face her, his hand poised on the doorhandle.

"This stays strictly in this room, Granger." He said. "The Chairman just hired me to get someone off Azeroth Prime. It's a totalitarian state if you're psionic, which our subject is to a rather extreme degree, and there's something about the collapsed dimensional portal that interferes with subspace doors – they're useless within about a thousand lights of Azeroth Prime. So I'm going to need a blockade runner to do the job. Problem is, we're picking up someone who's got a supernova elemental attached to their soul; I intend to keep her sedated until she's way the Hell away from me." He spat. "If the Psi Pigs had any sense they'd get out the old hypospray and load it up with enough tranquilisers to kill a dragon, then strap the corpse to a ten gigaton mass-energy conversion warhead on a two-second fuse and kick it out the airlock from subspace– just in case."

"How can you say something like that, Harry?" Hermione gasped.

Harry gave her a tired look.

"It'd be the kindest thing to do." He said. "That girl is a living starkiller bomb on a random time delay, who has absolutely no control over her own powers, which will kill her and everyone within a few hundred light years in a really unpleasant manner when they trigger; it's a case of when, not if, especially since she's probably under a lot of stress due to being chased by the Psi Pigs. The last time one of those poor bastards went over the edge, the result wiped sixty-three inhabited systems off the face of the galaxy; you humans call it the Crab Nebula. Come on; it's time we weren't here."

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When Dudley finally arrived at the Chinese embassy, having made a lengthy statement to the police (and carefully avoided mentioning that he recognised the guy with the huge bike) he was surprised to find that the guards seemed to be expecting him, and even more surprised to find that one of them seemed unduly interested in the Honda.

Mentally shrugging it off, he headed into the room that the guard ushered him into, and was somewhat startled when he found what seemed to be two Reyna's waiting for him.

"Hi, Dudley. Why're you looking so shook up?" One of them asked, waving him to a sofa; he figured she was Reyna from the fact she was wearing Reyna's wristwatch and pendant, and he knew Reyna didn't ever wear pink; the other Reyna-a-like had a pink T-shirt and the wrong watch.

Dudley sat down on the sofa with a thump.

"Gaaah, long story." He said. "I didn't know you had a twin."

The duo of Reyna's both giggled.

"Dudley, this is my twin sister, Cho Chang." Reyna said. "Sis, this is Dudley who I was telling you about. So… what took you so long, Dudley? I thought you'd be here about an hour ago?"

"I gotta find out how you knew I was coming…" Dudley muttered. "Pleased to meet you, Cho. Anyway, I had a bit of a surprise on the way over."

"What sort of surprise?" Cho asked.

"Well, I was heading up Charing Cross Road when a car came up behind me going really fast, with a couple of guys hanging out the windows with like sub-machine guns. Right when it was beside me, it got blown into bits; it nearly knocked me off my bike. What was left of it hit a shop, and I kinda had to skid to a halt to stop it mowing me down. Then this guy pulled up on the biggest baddest bike I've ever seen – it was more like a missile with wheels – and jumped off. He hauled a scar-faced guy out the wreck, threw him at the road, said 'My employers warned you, Skorzeny. But did you listen? The fuck you did; that's where I come in. Have fun in Hell, you sick sack of shit.' then _cut the scar-faced dude's head off_ with this dirty great sword, stuffed the head in his jacket and rode off."

"Oh." Reyna said, sounding shocked.

"That's what I told the fuzz." Dudley continued. "What I left out was that I knew the dude on the bike; I'm _certain_ it was my cousin, I'd know that voice _anywhere_."

Reyna looked surprised.

"I didn't know you had a cousin." She said.

Dudley nodded glumly.

"Yeah, I know… I don't like to talk about him." He said. "My parents didn't treat him so good… I wish I knew where he is so I could, I dunno, try to apologise or something. Course, I wouldn't blame him if he threw it back in my face. Anyway that's why I'm late, at least I'm pretty sure it was him… I mean, there can't be that many guys around with like lizard eyes and long pointy ears, right?"

"His name wouldn't happen to be Harry Johnson?" Cho checked.

"Nah, though he _is_ a Harry." Dudley told her with a shake of his head. "His name's Harry _Potter_… why are you looking at me in that tone of voice?"

"Does he happen to have a scar like a lightning bolt on his forehead?" Cho asked, sounding a bit faint.

"Well, he usta, but it was gone the last couple times I saw him." Dudley said.

Cho had by this time gone a bit shaky.

"Uh, is he like over two metres tall with long shaggy black hair, a thin face, lots of muscles and a whole lot of weapons?" she asked.

"Yeah… do you mean you know him?"

Cho nodded and a stupid grin spread across her face.

"OHMYGOD! I had sex with the Boy Who Lived!"

Reyna gave her a look.

"Okay sis, spill it."

"Er, what's going on?" Dudley asked.

"I think it's okay to tell you since you're Harry's cousin." Cho told him. "Normally it'd be illegal for me to tell people who're not family, but… I go to a college in Scotland called Hogwarts Collegium Arcanum, and the curriculum's not what you'd expect – I was born with a fairly unusual gift; my aura is extremely conductive to thaumatic energy, which is the scientific term for the power we call magic."

"Woah." Dudley said, sounding impressed. "I guess my cousin's like got the same thing, right? That makes sense; there was always weird stuff happened around him, like once I'd swear he teleported onto the roof, I mean I dunno how else he got up there, and another time he turned a teacher's hair blue, and another time he vanished a sheet of like bullet-proof glass. "

"Well, with him it's even more so." Cho said. "I guess he's even more powerful than I thought… that makes sense too. He's what we call a sorcerer; in other words, instead of just channelling the thaumatic energy in the environment, his aura creates it's own magic. I heard that a lot of psychics and such like heard him being born from six thousand light years away. Anyway, I'm pretty sure it's the same Harry. He goes to the same college as me… this is so cool… no wonder Papa wasn't upset…"

"I wonder why he changed his name and what happened to the scar?" Dudley mused.

"Papa probably knows." Reyna said. "It's the sort of thing he'd know, and maybe we could ask Uncle Jackie?"

"Hold on." Dudley said, sounding a bit freaked out. "Is 'Uncle Jackie' who I think it is?"

Reyna looked a bit embarrassed.

"Well… if you think he's Jackie Chan, you'd be right."

"Oh." Dudley mumbled, awed beyond the capacity for rational thought.

"It's a secret though." Cho warned. "I mean, with him being rich and famous, if people knew about us being related to him there's a good chance someone would try to kidnap us. Of course, if they did they'd be buying themselves a whole load of trouble that'd probably get them dead, but I wouldn't want to have that sort of an experience anyway."

"Uh, are there any other shockers about your family?" Dudley asked. "I mean, if you don't want to say anything it's cool, but I'd kinda like to get all the frights over and done with."

"I think you need to ask Papa about that." Reyna admitted. "It's not the sort of thing we're supposed to talk about."

"Fair enough… let's talk about my cousin right now." Dudley said. "I'm pretty sure he's pissed off with me, I mean, I would be in his boots, who wouldn't, and I gotta at least _try_ to apologise for all that shit. I mean, he'll probably spit in my face and punch me out or something, I deserve it, but I gotta at least make the attempt. I _gotta_."

"I don't think he's _that_ pissed at you." Cho said. "You're still breathing."

"Why'd you say that?" Reyna asked.

"Well, there's this girl he's really close to, her name's Hermione Granger, I think she's sort of his girlfriend or pet human or something like that." Cho explained. "She was kinda raped early in the year, and he went _berserk_."

"How berserk?" Dudley asked, remembering Harry stomping on Vernon.

"He skinned the sick bastard alive, broke every bone in his body, then shot him two hundred times." Cho told him.

"Ye Gods." Dudley muttered. He was beginning to think he and his parents had got off lightly.

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Bruce Walker, who chanced to be chilling out in the Blink Dog's living room, was justifiably surprised when the subspace door swung open to reveal Harry stood on the threshold.

"Permission to board, Captain." He said.

"C'mon in, mate." Bruce replied. "Hey, you know we're about to drop into the Azeroth Cluster in about twenty minutes, right mate?"

Harry nodded and slung the enormous black plastic hardcase he was carrying onto the floor, where it landed with a very solid crunch.

"Permission to board?" Hermione asked, standing on the doorframe.

"Yeah, you c'mon in too sheila." Bruce said. Hermione did, rapidly followed by Carla, who had another hardcase in her arms; she handed it to Harry, then passed another six through, came in, and shut the door.

Harry glanced at his watch and nodded.

"Cut that one pretty fine; we'll be into the Cluster in seven hundred fifty-eight seconds at the current speed, so I'd better be quick." He turned to Bruce. "I need to hire a blockade runner, Bruce."

"Well, you've come to the right bloke mate. What's the job?"

"You're not going to like it, which is why I'll tell you what the paypacket is first." Harry said, and hauled the hardcase he'd been carrying open.

It was full to the brim with gold coins.

"Ten thousand goblinish Galleons, hard cash, all in unmarked used coins without sequential serial numbers, and another ten thousand on completion of the job." Harry said.

"Crikey!" Bruce boggled. "So what's the run mate?"

"Can you get the others in here first? I want the whole crew to know what I'm getting you into."

Bruce nodded warily, triggered the intercom, and said, "Ladies and blokes, this is your captain speaking. All crew to the hangout."

Shortly thereafter, Alice, Tara and S'tarak'hai came trooping in, along with (to Hermione's immense surprise) Ben and Michelle Chaos.

"What's going down?" Alice asked.

"Harry's got a job offer for us." Bruce said.

"Let's hear it, Johnson." S'tarak'hai growled.

"I'm about to snatch a Genocyber out of under the noses of the Psi Pigs, grab her sister and her daddy, and get the Hell to the drop point before the tranks have time to wear off." Harry replied. "For that, I need a fast ship capable of running the blockade round Azeroth."

Bruce considered that for a long moment, and looked at his sister. Alice nodded and looked at Tara. Tara shrugged in an I-don't-care manner and looked at S'tarak'hai, who held his peace and looked at Ben, who grinned and looked at his sister, who just kept bouncing on the spot.

"Well mate." Bruce said. "Looks like you've got yourself a blockade runner, but you're keeping the poor bloody kid sedated until she's well the Hell off my ship, got it mate?"

"That's the plan." Harry said with a nod.

"I don't like this." S'tarak'hai stated.

"What'd be worse, her going off in deep space, or her going off in downtown Ironforge?" Harry asked.

"True." The big catman admitted, then glanced at Tara. "I still don't like it."

"Don't sweat it mate, Washuu put Harry up to this one." Ben said.

"That does not reassure me, Jedi." S'tarak'hai growled. "Sitting on a starship with the galaxy's least stable starkilling device was not on my to-do list for this summer, and nor was discovering that said highly unfortunate psychic is about to become an experimental subject for the galaxy's least stable scientist."

**---End Chapter---**

AN –

Well, here we go again. This chapter was preread by KuroNeko; if anyone else is interested in prereading, just ask.

Folky , thanks for one of the nicest things anyone has ever said to me. If you're ever in Findhorn, look for Calum at the Phoenix Shop and I'll buy you a beer down the Kimberly; an offer that extends to KuroNeko, BlazeStryker, Konton, and Saetan. Cheers! To everyone else who's commented, thanks for the kind words. This pig of a fic takes a lot of keeping track of, and your encouragements help motivate me; to everyone else who's read Headmaster's Socks (and is hopefully now reading Lunatic Scientist) thanks for reading.

I'd originally put answers to several questions on the comments list here, but it clogged up the AN's so much I decided to post it to the Top Dog forum; the link can be found from my author profile. Saetan, BlazeStryker, wolf550e, there's answers up there for you guys; I also included answers to some of KuroNeko's questions, but I figure he's already read them since they were here in the copy I sent for prereading. This time around I've mainly laid out the conclusions from the information I've provided about just how powerful Hermione really is.

I decided to 'humanise' Dudley a while back; the Dudley-humanisation was triggered off by reading Jeconais's excellent sixth year fic 'This Means War', which handled the youngest Dursley very well; it was then aided and abetted by the canon events in the beginning of 'Deathly Hallows', and above you see the beginning of the result. This is an older and wiser Dudley than the canon; he's taken a few knocks, and it's finally knocked some sense into him. I can't remember Dudley's canon middle name (if he has one) so I decided to give him a string of D's for initials, thus 'Darren' as a middle name. Besides, the Darren I'm friends with is a right hellraiser, so it seemed appropriate.

Reyna is someone I pulled out of my metaphorical hat; I chose the Changs because their surname links into the Hou Bang crime group from the original Bubblegum Crisis, and that's a big hint right there. Yes, Reyna and Cho's father is indeed called Chang Chongk, and yes they are going to have a pair of nieces by the names of Reika and Irene. I intend the Chang family to contain a lot of references to Hong Kong action movies, which is why I slated Jackie Chan as being Chang Chongk's brother. As yet, I haven't invented a name for their brother (Reika and Irene's father, who winds up dead courtesy of Gulf & Bradley) so if anyone wants to make any suggestions for people he could be a reference to, they'd be gratefully received; I'd prefer him to be a character played by Jackie Chan, but that's not essential as long as he's someone from a reasonably well-known kung fu flick.

A Q-plate is the worst variety of British numberplate (license tag to you Americans, IIRC) that a vehicle can have. The Q stands for 'Questionable' and goes where the year letter should be; it means that the vehicle's origin cannot be properly traced, which makes the DVLA (Driver Vehicle Licensing Authority) suspect it's stolen. In case you don't know, British numberplates consist of a string of three letters two of which show what region the vehicle was registered in and the third of which multiplies the possible registration numbers by about twenty (I can't remember the exact figure, but not all letters are used) a string of three numbers (the latest in a series starting with the first vehicle registered with all the same letters on the plate) and a letter that indicates the year the vehicle was registered in. Q-plates are the sad fate of all too many heavy custom jobs, and it torpedoes the vehicle's value. Yes, Dudders had the incredible fortune to acquire Ranma Jaku Saotome's first motorcycle; considering that Ranma and Genma probably nicked the parts out of scrapyards, it's hardly surprising that, when eventually registered, the poor neglected beast ended up saddled with a Q-plate.

I haven't checked out where the Chinese embassy actually is in London, which means I may slightly alter the location of Skorzeny's demise in the not so distant future – I have no idea if passing down Charing Cross Road would be anywhere near Dudley's route, it was just the first London street name I could remember.

Yes, Cho is one of the eight girls Harry scored with following the Gryffindor gravball victory.

If anyone's wondering why I'm paying Enter the Fnords a lot more attention than Biker Half v2.o at the moment, the reason is twofold.

Firstly, I want Enter the Fnords to catch up with Biker Half; the events of this chapter occurred in early June 1997, while the events so far detailed in Biker Half v2.0 took place a year later. Once I've finished this Intermission and Enter the Fnords Book 2 (Harry Johnson and the Deathtrap Girl) I'll start spending more time working on Biker Half.

Secondly, I'm currently thoroughly stuck on Biker Half. Events in Tokyo are going to move increasingly fast once I get the Amazons properly onto the scene, and I want to have Ranma and company having been in Tokyo for at least a week before the Amazons roll into town, because otherwise it'll look like the Amazons were too hard on the Saotome crew's heels. I'm going to grit my teeth and properly re-read the original soonish, making notes about the sequence of events as I do so; at the time of writing this I can't remember exactly what happened after Kodachi turned up. Oh well, guess that's more for my to-do list.

See you all next time,

Doghead Out.


	2. Chapter 2

**This ain't no self-insert fic.**

**This ain't no slash fic neither.**

**This is Top Dog.**

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The Azeroth Cluster is an open star cluster known on Earth as the Pleiades, sometimes called the Seven Sisters. It is a group of around four hundred stars packed close together in a region of distorted space; a dimensional gateway was destroyed on the surface of the planet known as Azeroth Prime in ancient times, and the resulting dimensional shockwave collapsed subspace across the entire Cluster. Subspace starflight is impossible throughout a region roughly three hundred light years across, centred on the Cluster, as subspace simply does not exist within that area. All long-range communications within the Cluster must use Material Plane transmissions; at the fringe of the Cluster, the Tapestry stops.

The whole region is haunted by Horde-remnant freebooters and Eastern Rim Alliance privateers, many of whom are even worse than the Horde; the Eastern Rim Alliance navy patrol the Cluster intensively, but they cannot be everywhere, and with the only possible superluminal communication systems being the fast courier starship and the telepath, coordination is difficult.

This has led to the Azerothian government's highly controversial Psionic Registration Act, due to which any Cluster-native psychic capable of interplanetary telepathic communication is conscripted into the military as soon as they are detected; this usually occurs during early childhood. There are a lot of nasty rumours circulating about the Azerothian Psi Corps; those who have crossed swords with the Psi Corps regard them with a level of vitriol usually reserved for the New Atlantean Empire and the Zeurghnorfians. According to rumour, the Psi Corps have a habit of kidnapping any psionic they can get their claws into from all across known space, and are into things like political manipulation and social engineering. According to rumour, it is the Psi Corps who control the Azerothian government.

According to rumour, they have ties to Sith of the kind known before the Jedi Civil War. And anyone who has ever seen the Psi Corps at their worst will immediately confirm most of the rumours.

The LSS-17332 Blink Dog dropped into the subspace dead zone of the Azeroth cluster running flat out and skirting dangerously close to the many dust clouds that dot the Cluster; she was visible only as a fleeting Chekhov rainbow as she pounded along with her warp drive holding at a hull-shaking 187.4 light years per hour.

Her destination; The city of Ironforge, Azeroth Prime. The heart of the beast.

Eastern Rim Alliance Space Traffic Control had asked for confirmation of her course six times straight when Tara logged it; the young Kenti woman was an expert navigator, and she frequently programmed routes of the sort only usually dared by people like the legendary hot-rodder Han Solo, a man often called the bravest (or craziest) owner-operator in known space.

The net result of Tara's incredibly tight course was a reduction in route distance of nearly thirty-five light years, a figure she was pretty certain she could improve by nearly sixty lights thanks to a peculiar formation in the Harpy's Talon Nebula; a clear passage nearly a hundred kilometres across leading straight through the nebula, which was by far the biggest in Alliance space. She fully intended to put her theory to the test on the way out, as well as skirting the Kessle black hole almost as close as Han Solo had on the run that made him (and his ship, the RVV-31386 Millennium Falcon) legendary.

She wouldn't be able to skim as close to the anomaly as Captain Solo; a Mentler DX-32 is somewhat wider than a Corellian YT-1300 courier. But she'd definitely be able to get closer to the event horizon than anything the Alliance would be able to put up in pursuit, and their military helms weren't nearly as responsive as the Sulare parts that were jury-rigged into the Blink Dog's avionics conduit, so they wouldn't be able to make the superluminal manoeuvres to route through the nebula under steam, leaving them eating the Blink Dog's dust from fifty-eight and a half lights behind; the only metal they had with the Dog's FTL manoeuvrability had a top speed of only 157.2 lights per hour.

Of course, the run all depended on the pickup and a fast dust-off. Tara really hoped Harry had that covered; otherwise, they'd all be screwed.

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**Disclaimer: Buzzing black holes – Really Bad Idea.**

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**Top Dog: Enter the Fnords**

**Intermission 1: Harry Johnson and the Lunatic Scientist.**

**A Doghead13 / United Galaxies fanfic**

**Written & produced by Calum J 'Doghead13' Wallace**

**Preread by KuroNeko**

**Brought to you by Hairy Scottish Git Productions, GMBH**

**This is not a drill.**

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**Chapter 2: Ready for the Storm**

**(In which our crew gets ready for the smash-and-grab)**

In the Blink Dog's messhall cum living room, Hermione Allison Granger was lounging around on a sofa and nervously watching her best friend, martial arts master, guardian angel and sort-of-boyfriend-in-a-fucked-up-way; the weredragon mercenary known to the galaxy as Harry Johnson.

Harry was at about the most tense Hermione had ever seen him. He wasn't exactly laid back at the best of times; well, right now he was wound so tense you could probably use his nerves as guitar strings. He was sat at the ship's dining table, with one of his guns disassembled, carefully cleaning the barrel; it looked much like just Harry being his usual self, but Hermione could tell the difference.

Most of the time, when cleaning a gun, he had a faint satisfied expression. He was currently glaring at the gun barrel like it had personally dishonoured him.

He'd been tense since the red light appeared on the surface of the subspace door; as they dropped further and further into the Azeroth Cluster, he got more and more wound up, and it was beginning to seriously unnerve Hermione. Harry's temper was a bit like an unexploded bomb at the best of times; a tense Harry was seriously bad news.

Finally, about a quarter hour into the Cluster, she drummed up the courage and asked the pertinent question.

"Why are you so tense?"

Harry snorted. "Run-up to an op." he said. "It always gets me going."

"Why?" Hermione asked. That hadn't told her much.

"Because the chance of being dead in the next few hours isn't exactly something I relish." Harry stated, and slotted the gun barrel back into place.

"Oh." Hermione said, deciding she could equate with that.

Then a few things came to her. Wasn't Harry a virtually indestructible dragon?

"Aren't you a virtually indestructible dragon?"

Harry smiled sadly at her.

"The difference between invulnerable and _nearly_ invulnerable is fairly significant, it's a bit like making an almost perpetual motion device. I'm extremely difficult to kill because I'm running custom-built beyond-cutting-edge cybernetics; a .50 Browning, for example, would bounce off my skin and maybe knock me over. Same goes for any Earther firearm short of an anti-tank weapon, but once you get to the bigger armour piercing weaponry I'm just as susceptible as anyone."

"I thought you said you were a match for a destroyer?" Hermione asked.

"In dragon form, yes. However, as you can probably tell, I don't have six inches of blasterproof scales in this form, and when I've gone dragon it takes a lot more damage to inconvenience me – it's like the difference between man and mouse, a wound that'd just piss off a man would turn a mouse into a fine mist of liquidised rodent. A Kryptonian going all out would eat me for lunch, and if a starship successfully torpedoed me, I'd be off to the great tax haven in the sky. I don't age, but that just means I've been eighteen for three hundred years and change, and I'm going to stay eighteen until the day I fuck up and someone gets that last shot in. There is very little chance I'll die peacefully; I'm an Amerai, diseases and old age won't touch me, when I go I'll go fighting, or just some stupid accident… Or by getting caught in the blast when a genocyber goes off, just for example."

"Uh, Harry, what sort of size of blast are we talking about?" Hermione asked, suddenly realising what he was tense about.

Harry snorted.

"Earth's sun pumps somewhere around a hundred and thirty trillion horsepower into Earth's atmosphere every second." He said.

"I know that."

"Well, put it this way; a Type One supernova can hit something like four hundred thousand million times the power of Sol; that's a higher output than _every star_ in your average _galaxy_ **put together**." Harry stated. "That's what I'm talking about when I say, the power of an exploding star. Have you got any idea just how much a blast that size destroys? Anything within a couple hundred light years is fucked, and I mean _proper fucked_. Okay, so I'm a dragon, I can shrug off a lot of damage. So shit, that poor bloody girl's a bomb that, if you let it off at Alpha Centauri, would wipe out all life on Earth."

"Wait a minute, if I'm capable of destroying a star, how much power must that take?" Hermione checked.

Harry glanced at her, then looked back at his gun.

"There's a big difference between you and a genocyber." He said.

"What?" Hermione asked.

"One, you can control it. Two, your power output is constant rather than a brief orgy of destruction. An average mage with your level of experience and control can draw about enough power to equal a quarter ton of high explosives; Ron is a good example. Your current aura output is similar to a star about five times the power of Sol. You're already able to draw more power than many magi will access in their entire lifetimes, and there's only one way from here – onwards and upwards. Once you're done with your training, well, as far as we can tell, your power output will be about a quarter more than a Type One supernova – constantly. Forever."

They lapsed back into silence; Harry finished reassembling his gun, which took him about a quarter of an hour. Then he glanced at Hermione.

She was sat there staring blankly at him with her mouth hanging open and her eyes bugged out.

Harry thoughtfully contemplated her for a moment, then waved a hand in front of her eyes. When that failed to garner a reaction, he stood up; she continued staring blankly at the spot he'd been sitting in, so he walked round behind her, firmly groped and fondled her, shrugged when it failed to provoke any reaction, and jabbed his index finger into her butthole.

"OW! Harry! What'd you do that for?"

"Your brain had crashed, I was looking for the reset button." Harry said, sitting back down in the seat he'd recently vacated. He unearthed another gun – one of his holdouts, an old Beretta – and began stripping it while Hermione glared at him. After a few minutes, the glare faded into a thoughtful look; after a few more minutes it became a puzzled frown.

"Harry?" she eventually said.

"What?" he asked, not turning his attention from the slightly ticklish procedure of reattaching firing pin to bolt.

"How many square inches of Earth face the sun at any one go?"

Harry contemplated that, realised he didn't know, shrugged, and handed her a copy of the Hitch-Hiker's Guide to the Galaxy off the Walker's bookshelf.

All was silent in the Blink Dog's messhall for some time.

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"LSS-17332 Blink Dog, you are cleared for final approach, runway 3, slip 17. Welcome to Ironforge City, heart of the Eastern Rim Alliance."

Hermione and Harry were now up in the wheelhouse along with the Blink Dog's entire crew. S'tarak'hai was being his usual sullen self, hunched over the ship's nose turret controls and glaring at the joystick like it had besmirched the honour of his entire family; he was even more tense than Harry. Ben Chaos was of course the exact opposite of tense, but then he was one _seriously_ centred person. Needless to say, his sister Michelle was bouncing in her seat; Bruce had insisted that everyone strap in for landing. Talking of whom, he was slouched in his usual seat, keeping an eye on the ship's damage monitors.

"Roger that, Ironforge ATC." Alice said, edging the yokes left a bit, bringing the Blink Dog into a sweeping arc aimed for the head of the runway. They were currently fifty kilometres out and closing fast.

Nothing was said in the Blink Dog's wheelhouse until she burst through the clouds, a mountain to each side, and a rumble issued from her belly as Alice lowered the landing gear.

"One kilometre." Alice finally reported. "Velocity two hundred fifty knotts; undercarriage down and locked."

"Roger." Bruce said.

There was another rumble of hydraulics as Alice deployed the airbrakes, and the ship's whole frame started shuddering from the increased turbulence.

"Seven hundred and fifty metres. Velocity two hundred knotts."

"Roger."

Another rumble built from the nose as Alice nudged the braking thrusters.

"Five hundred metres. Velocity one hundred seventy knotts."

"Roger."

The roar from the nose increased.

"Two hundred fifty metres. Velocity one hundred knotts."

"Roger."

"One hundred metres. Velocity ninety knotts."

"Roger."

"Fifty metres. Velocity eighty knotts."

"Roger."

There was a moment's strained silence, then a tremendous SLAM as the Blink Dog's twenty-six armoured tyres hit the runway with a howl of rubberized plasteel on tarmac; the suspension crouched, and Alice rammed her feet down on the wheel brake and braking thruster pedals.

"We have touchdown."

"Roger."

A few brief seconds of juddering and roaring passed, and then they were rolling along at perhaps twenty miles per hour; Alice swung the helm over to the left, turning into a taxiway.

"Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking." Bruce said, in his Bruce-is-taking-the-piss voice. "Welcome to Ironforge City."

"So, what's the deal with landing on a runway?" Hermione asked. "I thought the Blink Dog was a vertical takeoff vessel?"

"She is." Tara said. "But the Alliance are too cheap to shell out for ferroplascrete." The young Kenti navigator was sprawled at her station, looking completely relaxed, but to Hermione (who was Tara's Collegium room-mate) the way the tip of Tara's tail kept twitching was a dead giveaway as to how worked up she actually was.

"That doesn't mean much to me." Hermione admitted.

Harry snorted.

"Ferroplascrete is a type of synthetic concrete." He said. "It's a hybrid of the sort of nanostructuring used in arcology construction and a special type of conductive plastic, the nanostructuring allows it to take the blast from a starship dusting off, and the conductive element helps it loose heat rapidly; a direct hit from a turbine blast would slag steel. Ferroplascrete's expensive stuff, and it only lasts so long – the constant battering from turbine blasts makes it break down pretty fast. Just as an example, Hogwarts spends about half a million pounds on landing pad renewal every year; on a starport _this_ size, you'd be talking that much per _week_. The Alliance isn't exactly _skint_, but they're hardly Arcadia."

"How can Hogwarts afford _that_?" Hermione asked.

Bruce snorted. "That's why the tuition fees are so bloody expensive – that and about another fifty bloody billion things they throw money at."

"What? Wait, tuition fees? What tuition fees?" Hermione asked, quite thoroughly thrown off track.

Harry gave Bruce an annoyed look, then turned his attention back to Hermione. "Don't you remember the old fart warning Kenti, Leaguer, and more to the point New Atlantean students at the arrival feast that if they killed each other they'd be breaking international law?"

"Yeah, so?"

"I thought I told you that no Council-funded collegium will accept New Atlantean students." Harry stated.

Hermione looked startled. "Oh yeah… Wait a minute, are you saying Hogwarts isn't a Council of Magi collegium?"

"That'll be five points to Gryffindor, Miss Granger." Harry said with a sharp nod, managing to sound unnervingly like Snape. "It's a private collegium operated for profit by Britain's Ministry of Magic and Offworld Affairs. Hogwarts tuition fees are a _bitch_; one year at Hogwarts costs more than an entire master's degree through any normal Collegium, but then Hogwarts has a habit of turning out seriously impressive graduates; most of the tutors are the best in known space."

"Woah, I thought it was paid out of taxes like state school or something… hang on, how can the Weaselys afford Hogwarts?" Hermione asked. She'd seen the home conditions of Clan Weasely, and knew perfectly well that the red-topped horde were a scant few nanometres above the poverty line.

"Simple." Harry told her. "They don't pay a penny. You may be surprised to hear it, but Arthur Weasely is a distant descendent of a certain _whacknut_ who once went by the name of Henrietta Hufflepuff; that's where he got the red hair, and the twins seem to have inherited her sense of humour. The simple fact of the matter is that Arthur Weasely inherited a seat on the Hogwarts Board of Governors when Grindlewold snuffed his father, meaning that every non-graduate member of the Weasely family gets a free scholarship to Hogwarts; it's the only remaining part of the Weasely family's fortune. Considering we're talking fifty thousand pounds per year per student, on his wage he couldn't even start affording to send one child through Hogwarts, never mind five at a time – which is going to be the case next year. You may be interested to know, Molly Weasely happens to be twenty years older than my mother, but was in the same Collegium year as Mom; she was admitted as an adult student after she married Arthur."

"Hang on a minute." Hermione said. "How come _I_ can afford to go to Hogwarts? I mean, Mum and Dad aren't exactly _skint_, but I know for damn certain they couldn't afford… ye gods, three hundred and fifty thousand pounds… Harry, who's paying my tuition fees?"

Harry glanced over at her.

"I am." He said. "I'd have thought it was fairly obvious; you think I make a _habit_ of seeking out girls with violent travel accessories on railway platforms?"

"Okay, but… why?"

Harry snorted. "Do the math, Granger. I've told you about the first time I saw you. I've told you how powerful you are capable of becoming. I even mentioned the occasion my daughter saved your life. Think about it. How many times has a tall stranger stepped in and defused a dangerous situation, or even just out-and-out saved your life?"

Hermione stared at him, a look of wonder entering her eyes.

"You mean… that guy who chased the gang off me…" she whispered.

Harry nodded once, but once was enough.

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Hermione Allison Granger had been unnervingly intelligent from extremely early childhood. She had learned to read short words by age four. By age five, she was reading at a level that would be advanced for a ten-year-old. Back then, words like 'Precocious' and 'Child prodigy' had been bandied about a lot when people talked about Hermione.

On entering school, she was an immediate outcast. While most of the children wanted to bum off and play, Hermione wanted to _learn_. Between the school's staff holding her back and the other children ostracising her for being vastly more intelligent than they were, she was rapidly the lonely little friendless girl lurking in a corner of the playground with a book and trying to avoid the many and myriad bullies.

She had been _absolutely miserable_.

It all came to an abrupt and bloody head less than a month after she'd began in primary school. She'd taken to worming through a hole in the fence only she knew about (primarily since she'd made it with a pair of wirecutters she'd liberated from her father's toolbox) and hiding between the wall and some bushes in the public park next door to the playground.

Unfortunately, a certain gang of secondary school thugs, average age early teens, most of them with lengthy criminal records, had taken to getting smashed out their tiny minds while playing truant in that particular corner of the park. They hadn't gone there the last few weeks since the cops had been looking for them to 'talk' about their latest mugging exploits, but when they found a tiny waif with a large book in their private shooting gallery, they'd gone ballistic. Hermione had lost track of time and been marked as absent; the only person who responded to the screaming when the gang trapped her in a corner and laid into her with an assortment of bludgeons was an alarmingly tall man dressed in full motorbike leathers and a full-face crash helmet with a mirrored visor who came flying over the wall and beat the holy hell out of the entire gang (killing two in the process, and fatally injuring another three) saw how badly injured Hermione was (by the time he intervened she had a cracked skull, and a punctured lung from one of seven broken ribs) and called the emergency services, then took off on a motorbike that was later found dumped a few miles away (it turned out to have been stolen) before anyone could get a police statement out of him – or even see his face. Suffice to say that Hermione never went back to school; she couldn't clearly remember the attack, but the pain and that biker flying over the wall would probably stick with her for the rest of her life.

Jeff Granger, the Hell's Hippies, and about a dozen other clubs were still looking for the mystery biker – to thank him for saving Hermione's life and (in the case of the Obscure Riders MCC) wag a finger at him for lifting Bubba Zanutti's streetfighter, but then at least he'd treated the stolen Zed Thou with respect – most of the time when a stolen bike is recovered it's had the ignition barrel stabbed with a screwdriver and the whole bike's had the shit beaten out of it, but this guy hadn't so much as left a scratch in the paintwork.

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"That… that was… _you_?" Hermione asked.

Harry nodded again.

"And the gas leak." He said. "And that time when the aircrew collapsed. And any one of literally _thousands_ of other occasions which you never knew about. Haven't you ever wondered why, wherever you go, dead bodies turn up nearby within a few days? I lost count of the number of times people tried to kidnap you or whack you at the two thousand mark, and that was while you were still in hospital recovering from what those little psychos did to you. I only let those fucks off so easy because of how young they were."

"Uh, I wouldn't call five fatalities letting them off easy." Hermione said.

"Granger, when I beat those brats up I was carrying two high-calibre handguns, three tantos, a suppressed MP5, a pair of Ingram MAC10s, an anti-tank wrist launcher and nearly a thousand rounds of ammunition." Harry firmly informed her. "They nearly killed a little girl right in front of me and most of them are still breathing; ergo, I let them off easy. I came about a half nanosecond from going 'Screw it' and mowing the little bastards down with a subgun, but I figured what was left of your innocence was worth more than the satisfaction of putting them down like the rabid dogs they are. Me and my people have been protecting you your entire life, Granger. I let down my guard like a damn amateur when you entered the Collegium; I'm sorry. Feels like it's my fault Flint got to you."

"Harry, don't _ever_ think I blame you for that." Hermione said.

Harry gave her a sad smile and rested a hand on her shoulder for a moment.

"Doesn't stop me thinking I should have been more careful." He said. "What kind of dragon am I, letting some worthless fuck touch one of my humans? Aw well, that's psychology for you… I still wish I could resurrect that sick son-of-a-bitch, that way I could kill him again."

"Don't dwell on it." Hermione said. "The past is gone, and there ain't no power in the universe can change it."

Harry chuckled and his smile turned into a rueful grin.

"Ain't that the truth; temporal paradoxes are a bitch. Well, guess it's time to get this bloody job over and done with. The sooner I've got the targets to the drop point, the sooner I can relax for five fucking minutes… C'mon Carla, we'd better tool up, it's time to make the donuts."

"I shall accompany you, Johnson." S'tarak'hai stated, rising to his feet.

"Sure about this catboy?" Harry asked. The huge Kenti nodded firmly, and Harry grinned. "Good to have you aboard; you'd better arm for strider."

"Think I'll come too mate." Ben remarked, clambering laboriously out of his seat. Harry nodded again.

"Alright, we've got twenty minutes to what passes for nightfall around here – we'll kit out and be off the ship in half an hour. Bruce, Alice, if you guys could warm up the engines in an hour's time that'd be appreciated."

"No worries mate, I'll tell the tower we're running tests." Bruce said with a nod. "Me and Tara'll make ourselves conspicuous by opening the access panel on Number Four turbine and rooting around in the workings, then we'll have her sealed up and ready to make some noise in forty-five minutes."

"Number Four needs more grease on the main bearings from the vibrations I felt on the way in." Tara remarked. "Greasing her up would take us about forty minutes; sound good?"

Harry nodded again.

"Sounds about right." He said. "We may need you to scoop us off the road, we're going to lift a car and who knows how many pigs are going to get on our case when we bust out the Psi cop-shop?" He glanced at his watch. "Be ready to dust off at a moment's notice as of nineteen hundred hours local time."

"She's right mate, we've got your six." Alice said with a nod identical to that her brother had deployed a few moments before.

"Wait a minute, if I'm not coming along, how come you wanted me here?" Hermione asked.

"Because Linda and Anne are in for some much-needed maintenance and I don't trust my pet borderline psychotic predatory lesbian bondage killer catgirls with your safety unless those two are around." Harry said, and headed for the messhall and his equipment.

Hermione stared blankly after him as he left. Linda and Anne were the Granger's most exotic next door neighbours – a matched pair of Asian lipstick lesbians with exhibitionist tendencies. As for the rest of that sentence…

"… pet borderline psychotic predatory lesbian bondage killer catgirls?!?" she mumbled, beginning to wonder if the universe would ever start making sense.

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Hermione met Harry and the others in the hold half an hour later to see them off. A storm was building as the sun set; the cargo ramp was down, the myriad pallets gone, a cold wind sweeping into the hold, and the four were decidedly tooled up.

Harry was his usual heavily-armed self; he was also wearing his trenchcoat, and he had hefty three-barrelled wrist launchers strapped to each arm. Oddly, he was carrying a bulky duffle bag along with a heavily-modified heavy rifle Hermione managed to identify as a customised Mentler A-DRK grav rifle only from the distinctive shape of it's magazine and receiver; it's barrel had been beefed up, it's furniture replaced with a drab green adjustable orthopaedic set, and it had assorted lasers, holosights, tactical lights and so forth around the extensive RAS rail cluster.

S'tarak'hai was wearing full battledress – night camouflaged fatigues that even sheathed his wings, Kevlar helmet, ballistic goggles, splinter mask, tactical vest with armoured clamshell lining, and combat boots, with his warblade as ever jutting up behind his shoulder. He had his A-DRK grav rifle on a three-point sling, and his vest bulged with spare ammunition. He usually looked a bit like a Kenti version of a Dethklok fire support guitarist; now there was no sign of that, and aside from the absence of his rank and unit badges he looked every inch the highly-trained Special Forces soldier.

Ben was wearing brown Jedi robes, giving Hermione a sincere double-take; she'd never seen the New Aussie wearing anything that wasn't a T-shirt and jeans before. She hadn't even known he had any other style of clothes. However, his usual combat boots were still on his feet, and unlike most Jedi he was packing an E-Mag on one hip, nicely counterbalancing his most lethal weapon – his lightsabre, which was hung on his other hip.

As for Carla, her getup was truly outlandish; there was no sign of her usual demure sundress. In it's place was a skin-tight black leather catsuit that covered everything below her throat without leaving much of anything to the imagination, and slung across her shoulder she had an Imperial Atlantean bolter with Adeptus Mechanicus markings; she also had a heavily-laden utility belt around her waist, a pack on her back, combat boots on her feet, ballistic goggles over her eyes, and her collar was of course in place, though her leash was conspicuous by it's absence.

All in all, the four of them very obviously meant business and didn't plan on taking any prisoners any time soon.

"Thought I'd come see you off." Hermione said. "Just… don't get killed, OK?"

Harry grinned and winked at her.

"We'll make our own luck." He said, and then the four were off, slipping away down the cargo ramp into the gathering dusk. The multitudes of nearby stars meant it never truly got dark on Azeroth; several were close enough to cast shadows, and on clear nights one would be able to read a newspaper by starlight. However, this night was heavily overcast; the sky muttered and grumbled, heralding the coming storm, and the sickly glow of streetlights reflecting from the low, sullen clouds stained the world a hellish orange.

Hermione shivered a bit and retreated to the Blink Dog's messhall to wait for news of Harry's operation.

---End Chapter---

AN -

Well, figured this was a good place for a chapter break. It's a touch on the short side, but it felt like a natural dividing line. I've updated chapter 1 at the same time as I posted this; the differences are simply a couple of minor changes in the way I phrased things.

KuroNeko, thanks for the preread and the advice – that conversation just wouldn't have been the same without your pointers. I'd shoehorned what were originally two different conversations together with a rather ugly lead-in, and I certainly think the revised version flows a lot smoother.

Harry's statement about the amount of power the sun pumps into Earth's atmosphere per second is, from what I know, scientific fact. I found it in a book called 'The Blue Planet' by Andrew Byatt, Alastair Fothergill and Martha Holmes, first published 2001; the statement in question can be found on page 30. Harry's statement about the power of a supernova is taken from a book called 'Phillip's Atlas of the Universe' by Patrick Moore, the edition I own having been published 2001; the statement in question is on page 180.

'State school' is one of the terms used to refer to Britain's government-run school system. Those who use this term usually do so with disdain.

A large proportion of home educated kids are home educated because of bullying thugs and school staff who don't give a flying fuck, or even worse encourage the little bastards because they don't like the victim's face or something equally retarded. Leaving a kid to suffer that crap doesn't 'prepare them for the real world', it mentally scars them in ways they are unlikely to ever recover from – a fucked-up childhood is going to result in a fucked-up adult, it's as simple as that. I exaggerated the sort of behaviour patterns involved when I wrote what happened to Hermione, but it isn't exactly unusual; a lot of Dursley-style jerks seem to think it's the done thing to teach their brats to attack anyone who's more intelligent than they are or just doesn't fit in, and the involvement of broken bones is less unusual than you'd think. Kids regularly kill themselves because it's the only way out of that crap they can see, and it makes me sick that society then proceeds to do a grand total of bugger all about it. I've been on the receiving end of that kind of shit, and when this fat fucking moron of an 'authority figure' got all condescending 'aww, look at the wimp, diddums' in public because I complained in fucking private about the fucking turdpiles who had decided to play beat-up-the-Calum, I wish I'd stood up and kicked him in the fucking cobblers; I don't care what the fuck anyone thinks, my neck is not an ashtray. In short, if you're a parent and your kid is being bullied, for the love of Jesus and _dead puppies_ get them the fuck _**out**_ of there! **Help them, Obi-Wan – you're their only hope!** OK, rant over; I just happen to feel very strongly about that subject.

A Zed Thou is a GPZ1000, but I can't currently remember the manufacturer. Is it a Kawasaki? Duh!

I just ran a word count on 'Headmaster's Socks'. 134,000 words and change, and that's not counting my AN's – it's the biggest thing I have ever done; it runs to just over a megabyte in RTF. Well, that makes my 11,000 words of author's notes look a bit less excessive… Just to throw things into perspective, far as I know professional authors are typically limited to a hundred thousand words for their first novel.

If the whole lot works out at similar lengths (with each Intermission being at least half that) then the Harry Johnson saga should easily break a million words; that's definite UF territory. I guess a lot of people would be feeling daunted at this point, but hell, Headmaster's Socks is less than a third of what I've so far written, and I for one am enjoying the prospects of this monster I'm in the process of creating. Ain't no point in aiming low, all you'll hit that way is the ground.

Just a few days ago, one of my friends bore witness to what must be about the most powerful explosion Scotland has experienced in some time; he was visiting his girlfriend in Ayr, they were sat in his car looking out over the sea, when all of a sudden a bright orangey light flared up low on the water at about horizon level. This light was seventeen thousand tons of nitro-cellulose detonating in a factory far enough away from my friend that, in the video clip he got using his cellphone, you cannot see the landmass upon which the explosion occurred; at the time, he thought it was coming from something like a burning boat. He uploaded the clip to YouTube; you can at the time of writing find it by going to my livejournal (via the 'Homepage' link in my profile) and clicking over to my friends page. Right now it's Sutekhian's latest LJ post, though that will of course change with time; he posted it on the ninth of September 2007.

**Seventeen thousand tons of high explosives**. That's a 17-kiloton blast; I find myself wondering if it created any sort of electromagnetic pulse… In the film clip Sutekhian got, it looks almost like the setting sun… it must have been a HELL of an explosion. It's a fucking miracle nobody was killed.

I just got me a Maruzen gas blowback Walther PPK/S! Doghead now has a Bond gun! The magazine capacity is a slightly unrealistic 22 (as opposed to 7 in the real thing) but who cares – it looks and feels the tits. The markings are slightly different and the brass inner barrel is visible from the front, but what the heck. I've been wanting to try out a gas blowback airsoft gun for a while, and it is indeed up to my expectations. The trigger pull is nice, the action crisp, and the safety very authentic. On firing the last BB, the slide locks back on the empty action – very authentic, it even gives you a bit of a kick in the wrist to make sure you're paying attention when you fire. Accurate range is fairly limited, but then it's hardly a sniper rifle and you can easily hit a target the size of someone's chest at the sort of range a compact pistol is designed for; it's an excellent holdout, especially considering it's (fully functional) double-action trigger mechanism. Interestingly, the magazine holds easily enough gas for two magfulls of BB's. It's certainly a worthwhile addition to my as yet small (but growing rapidly!) airsofting armoury.

Talking airsoft, I (and every other airsofter in the UK) owe some thanks to Her Majesty's Government; a new law was recently passed in the UK, banning the sale, import and manufacture of realistic reproduction firearms – but thanks to some adroit lobbying and some sympathetic MP's, airsoft skirmishers like Yours Truly were given an exception (along with groups such as the movie industry) allowing us to, as long as we're registered as legitimate users, continue purchasing, importing and constructing our airsoft guns. I never thought I'd say this, but thankyou, Parliament! And thankyou to our local friendly airsoft skirmish site manager, for aiding and abetting my continued collecting of realistic reproduction firearms. Yeah, I'll admit it, I'm a gun maniac, but I like to think I'm a fairly harmless one. So anyway, here's a big up to the Members of Parliament for letting my favourite sport keep on rockin' in the free world.

Well, I'll see you all next time around, and egads that's a sizeable AN's.

Doghead Out.


	3. Chapter 3

**This ain't no self-insert fic.**

**This ain't no slash fic neither.**

**This is Top Dog.**

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They weren't far from the spaceport when Harry started checking out cars, trying to decide which to steal. They'd received a few odd looks on their way out of the spaceport, but then with Azeroth Prime's Murloc problem, heavily armed persons weren't exactly that unusual. Sure, it wasn't a matter of everyone and his uncle carrying enough weaponry to start a couple of international incidents, but small groups of bounty hunters with vast collections of weaponry were a fairly regular sight. Add in a little Force persuasion on the part of Ben and Harry to get people to miss the fact that the four weren't exactly carting hunting rifles, and viola.

"From now on until we're back onboard the Dog, my name is Slade Morely." Harry stated.

"I thought you'd ditched that identity?" Ben asked.

"I have." Harry said with a nod. "However, 'Slade Morley' has tangled with the Psi Corps a couple times and they don't know he's actually me – I want to send 'em on the wrong track."

"I doubt it will take them long to ascertain your identity after today." S'tarak'hai remarked.

"You're probably right, but it'll get 'em wondering." Harry said with a shrug. "I hired Bruce for this run because there's definite evidence pointing the Dog's presence here on Azeroth to Floonookoou Heavy Industries; layers within layers, man. The only identity I've ever worked for the Frououshtequoo under is Slade Morley; see where I'm going with this?"

"Think this car'll do?" Ben asked, stopping beside a nondescript saloon car he happened to recognise as a Sentek Maeslen, the black sheep of the Sentek model range – it looks like an average boring travelling salesman mobile, but has a 4.8-litre capacity twin-turbo V12 kicking out nearly 500 horsepower under the front. This one was painted a rather unfortunate snot green.

"Nah, we'll take this one." Harry said, pointing at the large lowrider parked next up the street. "It's got a better paint job."

The car in question was a big old Sulare Vancis sedan. It's styling loosely resembled the Walker's ute, or a 50's Chevvy Impala for that matter, and it had been heavily modified. The windows were reinforced by wire mesh, an enormous blower stack protruded from the bonnet, and the grille was surmounted by a chunky ram bar. The whole thing was painted a cheerful bright red, with smart black-and-white chequered trim and a leering red-sun logo on the doors and roof.

"Morley, that car is in Orc gang colours." S'tarak'hai warned.

"All the better." Harry stated, inserting an Allen key into the lock and fiddling for a moment; there was a click as the central locking went. "Red ones go faster, don't you know. Besides, this way we may be able to trick the Psi Pigs into starting something with the Evil Sunz."

S'tarak'hai dubiously contemplated the statuette of Gork on the car's leather-lined dashboard as he squeezed into the front passenger seat; even a large burly Orc isn't quite as large and burly as a big R'hara'tath.

"I am becoming more and more uncertain about this as time progresses."

"Stiff upper lip, catboy." Harry said, slotting the Allen key into the ignition barrel. "Guy's gotta do what a guy's gotta do. Just try not to get your leg caught on the gearstick." The engine roared into life, and he threw the car into gear and stood on the throttle.

As the car began a rolling burnout, an Orcish-accented yell was heard from the direction of the nearby bar:

"Ere! Sum mob a' kuntz iz liftin' me wheelz!"

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**Disclaimer: Don't try this at home, kids! Oh, alright, go ahead and try it at home, its fun, but don't tell anyone I said so…**

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**Top Dog: Enter the Fnords**

**Intermission 1: Harry Johnson and the Lunatic Scientist**

**A Doghead13 / United Galaxies fanfic**

**Written & produced by Calum J 'Doghead13' Wallace**

**Preread by KuroNeko.**

**Brought to you by Hairy Scottish Git Productions, GMBH**

**This is not a drill.**

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**Chapter 3: Smash and Grab**

**(In which we find out why having heavily-armed superhuman mercenaries saunter into your secret police HQ is a very bad thing)**

Harry drove for ten minutes, taking all sorts of random turnings, then pulled in to the side of the street.

As soon as the car was stationary, he put the gearbox into neutral and sat back, closing his eyes as he dropped into a Force trance, extending his senses into the city, seeking one very specific girl.

Ben winced as the wave of darkness lashed out. The boiling rage at the core of Harry's being rolled over him, forcing him to enter a trance to protect himself:

There is no emotion;

There is peace.

There is no ignorance;

There is knowledge.

There is no passion;

There is serenity.

There is no chaos;

There is harmony.

There is no death;

There is the Force.

"Found her." Harry stated, his eyes snapping open; the fury collapsed back into the weredragon mercenary as he flung the car into gear and trod on the gas.

"_Strewth_ mate; every Force sensitive on Azeroth must've felt _that_." Ben said, wiping the sweat from his brow.

"Sorry. Only way I could think of to track her down without taking bloody forever." Harry replied.

"You could've just asked me to feel for her." Ben pointed out.

"My bad, I'm still used to working solo." Harry jerked his thumb over his shoulder. "We'd better remember to check this thing's boot when we get back to the ship; there's someone in there."

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Not that far away, a girl named Elaine Morgan was reeling drunkenly down a filthy maze of back alleys; the wall of darkness that had blasted over and through her had left her feeling like she'd been worked over yet again. Her head was throbbing with pain; that same headache again, the one that had been giving her more and more trouble since she gave the Psi Corps the slip.

She steadied herself and darted into another side alley. There were two of them behind her, a couple of corners back; she could feel their minds searching for her, and she was pretty certain she wouldn't shake them off this time.

She slipped her hand into her ragged jacket, found the sawn-off positron blaster she'd lifted from the Navy officer in the market downtown a few days before, and set it's safety to fire. She didn't plan on shooting it out with the Psi Cops; her plan was, if they cornered her, to put the blaster's barrel against her forehead and pull the trigger.

"Halt!" someone yelled; they were catching up with her.

Elaine's feet skidded on the garbage that lined the alley as she flung herself round the next corner; a neurostunner bolt smashed into the wall behind her as she vaulted over a dumpster, her head screaming with agony as she forced herself to keep going, keep running, maintain the defiance.

This was it. The last fleeting moments before-

Four people stepped round the corner in front of her; a massive Kenti in night camouflage battledress, a lanky human in Jedi robes, a pretty brunette in a leather catsuit, and a tall, athletic looking elven man in a black trenchcoat. A tendril of darkness reached out; Elaine's legs suddenly gave out under her, and she went face-down in the garbage, coming to a halt a few feet from the quartet. The positron blaster went skittering away, landing against the Kenti's booted foot.

The fear was sucked away from her, leaving her unnervingly calm as she realised she no longer had control of her limbs; thankfully, the pain began to ebb from her skull. She realised she could feel something from three of the quartet; the elf was like a slice of warm velvet midnight, the big Kenti had a slick electrical feel, and the Jedi felt like some kind of steady royal blue floodlamp.

"Game over, blip – what the-" A voice said from behind her, and then the alley exploded in a storm of gunfire as the four interlopers opened up with the assorted firearms they were carrying. It either lasted a couple of seconds or an eternity, Elaine would never be able to say which, and then strong hands were lifting her from the rubbish-strewn concrete.

"Sleep now." the elf commanded. "You're safe."

The Kenti grunted, flicked her blaster up with his foot, snatched it out the air, thumbed the safety on, and slid it into his webbing, all in one smooth movement. The Jedi said "Poor bloody kid." in a strong New Aussie accent.

"I just hope Washuu knows what she's doing." The elf said, and then Elaine slipped into the warm dark embrace of unconsciousness.

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Hermione wandered into the cargo bay, and received a surprise. Tara was just getting out of the rusty old forklift, which she had obviously been using to move some of the ghosts of cars that littered the cargo bay; two of them were now partially obstructing the main ramp.

"Oh, didn't expect you down." The inky-furred Kenti navigator said. "Can you weld?"

"No, but I'm a quick learner." Hermione said.

"Good." Tara replied, and handed her two things that she fished off some of the many junk-laden shelves that lined the hold; a welding mask and a thing that looked like a mutant pistol with a pair of metal prongs for a barrel and a hefty battery pack attached by cable to the pistol grip. "The reason we keep those two particular old cars around is because they're armoured; they're old Saotome Clanguard staff cars. We picked them up for a handful of crowns on Dachaig Nuadh and modified them to suit our purposes."

"So… what's that?" Hermione asked, working out how to adjust the welding mask's headband.

"Every so often, a load has to come in under fire. We stripped the mechanicals out and fitted pop-up weapon mounts in the engine bays; they're old Mentler DKK squad autos fitted with water cooling and enormous ammo drums. Most of the bonnet acts as a shield for the gunner. Whenever we need 'em, we weld 'em to the decking about there. That way we've got something to deter unwanted passengers and they won't get rammed onto the people who're operating the machine guns. Talking of which, ever fired a machine gun?"

"No." Hermione said. "But as I said, I'm a quick learner… how do I do this?"

Tara showed her what to do, resulting in one of the left-hand car's wheels being securely welded to the floor, nicely demonstrating why it was a bare rim. Hermione realised quite a few of the scars on that sort of area of the decking was from having a certain car repeatedly welded to and cut off of it. Then Tara left Hermione to weld that car down, and went over to deal with the other.

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The Psi Corps headquarters building at 138 Sanizein Way in central Ironforge is a rather unprepossessing sight. It's a squat grey concrete towerblock that looks much like the typical function-before-form urban eyesore as constructed by your typical megacorporations the universe over, lurking amidst a line of virtually identical monstrosities, many with banal corporate logos smeared across their facings; the building next door, for example, bears the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation's slogan – 'Share And Enjoy', which is slightly ironic considering that said company has the absolute worst customer service in known space.

The Psi Corps HQ is unusual in having security tighter than your average government capitol. Nobody just walks into 138 Sanizein Way. Not even heavily-armed weredragon mercenaries, Kenti special forces, or Jedi knights.

And that's why the Vancis came to a halt in the dingy back-alley behind 136 Sanizein Way; three figures climbed out.

"You're going to have to do some driving, Carla." Harry stated.

Carla nodded, looking worried, and climbed into the front seat.

"Head back to the spaceport." Harry instructed. "Tell Bruce to wait until I call you then come uplift us; we'll either be on the roof or flying down the street; I'll activate my beacon when I hear the Dog coming. Get moving."

Carla nodded; the Vancis ground it's gears as it drew away.

"Are you sure this is a good idea?" S'tarak'hai growled.

Harry shook his head.

"No, but when we bust into that shithole, all Hell's gonna break loose." He said. "We won't have time to get to a car, and even if we managed it we'd have the entire Ironforge City Police Department looking for us, and not exactly to give us a fucking haircut if you get my drift; there's no way in Hell we'd get a car onto the starport. Let's roll 'em."

And with that, he headed for the fire escape up the back of the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation's Azeroth branch HQ.

Arriving on the roof, the three men spent a couple of minutes surveying their target with an assortment of passive sensors, then Harry let out a low chuckle.

"And I called it." he murmured. "Everything's at ground level."

Ben nodded and grunted; S'tarak'hai rolled his eyes. The three retreated to the far side of the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation rooftop, then aimed for the Psi Cops HQ at a flat-out sprint; all three kicked off the rim. Ben and Harry soared across the gap in arcing Force-powered cannonball jumps, while S'tarak'hai momentarily kicked in his wings. They landed in a wide formation, scanned for targets or sensor packs, then after an exchange of hand signals moved towards the lift head and stairwell, lasercomm signals tracking back and forth between them.

The lock on the stair head swiftly succumbed to Harry's skills, and the trio ghosted down the stairs, eyes scanning for security systems, cautiously checking each corner.

Within two minutes, they were at the doors to the security room. Harry checked round the door (which was fortuitously open) then plugged the three guards with the trank pistol he'd earlier used on Elaine Morgan.

He nodded, and the other two darted into the room, rapidly checking and clearing it. Harry plugged a device into the back of the main security computer, then the three headed out; Harry used a sprung clip to jam the door shut behind them.

"It's a piece of piss so far mate." Ben remarked in a sotto voice.

"Getting out will be the interesting part." Harry told him.

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"Blink Dog, you are clear to begin turbine checks." The control tower said.

Alice nodded, said "Roger that." to the comms, turned the keyrod all the way to the left and snapped a bank of switches down; there was a familiar CRACKthrummmm as the fusion reactor ignited. Light after light turned green across the dashboard as the old workhorse came to life.

"Initiating turbine check." She said, flicked a concealed switch up, and clicked the main turbine throttles up to idle; there was a building hum from the stern as the main engines spooled up, rapidly followed by the CRACK of the charge igniting into plasma. Alice nodded, pulled the parking brake another notch tighter and started carefully examining the dials and readouts.

"You're looking okay so far, Blink Dog." The tower said. "I'm reading a touch of flare-out from your Number Four turbine, but nothing drastic."

"Roger that, Control." Alice replied. "Initiating stationary burns."

She slid the throttle bank up to the first power notch; there was a clunk and whine as the turbines sped up, rapidly hitting 200,000 revs per minute and spitting great roaring clouds of plasma.

"How's she looking now?"

"Still okay. The flare settled 1.004 seconds into burn, but Number Four is now a couple hundred degrees on the hot side."

"Roger that, Control." Alice repeated, clicking the turbines back down to idle.

"Your Number Four looks like it's idling a little fast; only a couple thousand RPM's, but you may want to check its rev controller."

"Looks stable from this end, and I'm barely reading any vibrations; looks like we've finally cracked the mounting problems. Initiating second burn."

Five minutes into the turbine checks, Bruce dubiously peered at the car that was now rumbling towards the Dog. It vanished under the ship's nose, and he glanced at the cargo ramp security cameras, which showed the car heading into the hold. He picked up the shipboard PA handset.

"What's going down, Nav?" he asked.

"It's Carla." Tara's reply crackled from the wheelhouse speakers. "She's got someone I don't know in the back seats."

Bruce glanced at Alice, who shrugged and carried on with her tests, so Bruce hurried off down to the hold.

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"I'm glad _that's_ over." Carla said, unclenching her fingers from the steering wheel.

"I thought you couldn't drive?" Hermione asked. Carla showing up behind the helm of a bright red lowrider without Harry, Ben or S'tarak'hai wasn't exactly on the big list of things she'd been expecting.

"This is only like the third time I've _ever_ driven." Carla said. "I stalled this bloody thing fifteen times, and nearly crashed twenty-seven times."

Tara helpfully pulled the handbrake.

"Alright, explanation now." Bruce said, skidding to a halt beside the car.

"Master is at the Psi Corps building at 138 Sanizein Way, retrieving Professor Morgan and Diana Morgan." Carla said. "S'tarak'hai and Ben are with him. Master told me to take Elaine Morgan here and wait for his call; when he calls me he wants you to pick him up from the rooftop of the Psi Corps building." It was obvious she wished she was with Harry.

"So who's this sheila, apart from Elaine Morgan?" Bruce asked, looking at the girl who was slumped, tranquilised and handcuffed, strapped into the car's centre rear seat.

"She is the primary target." Carla said.

Bruce blinked and looked back. "So that sheila's the Genocyber, right?"

"Correct." Carla stated.

"Poor bloody kid." Bruce said, looking at Elaine.

"Poor bloody us if she wakes up." Tara stated.

Bruce nodded. "We'd better take her up to the brig." He said. Tara nodded and grimaced, unbelted Elaine, picked her up, and headed up the port for'ards stairs without saying a word.

Bruce turned to Carla.

"Come on; you'd better come up the wheelhouse." He said. "Hermione, how about going up the brig and keeping an eye on that poor bloody kid?"

Carla nodded demurely.

Hermione looked a bit puzzled and worried. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, there's a trank gun up at the brig, and if it looks like that poor bloody Elaine Morgan kid's coming round, nail her with a super-strength dose because otherwise we're all _fucked_." Bruce told her. "Don't look at me like that sheila, I don't like it either but all we can do for the poor bloody kid is keep her out until she's well the fuck away from us. Put it this way, if anyone in the universe can turn a Genocyber's fuse off, it's Washu."

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The brig was a large room, thirty-one feet by twenty-three feet with sixteen foot ceilings like the rest of A-deck, lined with cages. They were arranged in a spiral pattern, and each was about eight feet long by four feet wide and four feet tall with a thinly-padded floor; they were stacked four high, reaching ceiling height. Access was via square doors about three feet across.

Tara slid Elaine into the second one up right by the door into the brig, and slammed it's door on the unfortunate psychic. She then reached through the bars, pulled a seatbelt-clip-looking thing away from the wall revealing it was trailing a strip of webbing, clicked it into a matching receptacle on the side of the cage away from the wall, repeated the process with another two such straps, and then noticed that she was being doubtfully observed by Hermione.

"Hey, wassup?"

"Bruce said I was to watch her and trank her if it looked like she was coming round." Hermione explained.

Tara nodded and reached out the door to what looked like a fire-fighting equipment cabinet; she hauled it open. Within was a rack of sets of handcuffs, an assortment of collars and shackles that Hermione recognised as mage-chokes, wolfsbane injectors, and psi-inhibiters, and a shelf loaded with ugly but compact handguns; Tara handed one to Hermione, along with a magazine.

"They're gas-powered. Similar to an airsoft gun. Just load it and cock it like you would a normal semi-auto." Tara explained. "The tranks we use are definitely non-lethal, but the darts pack enough to knock out S'tarak'hai; it's a nanite-based compound, it self-gauges how much is needed to send the target off to dreamland. For the love of God don't let that poor kid wake up."

"Why's it so important to keep her knocked out?"

"Because as far as anyone knows Genocybers react to stress by going onto a hair trigger, and, well, she's just been kidnapped, of course she's going to be stressed." Tara explained. "We'll need to watch her in shifts, even when we get out of here… I'll grab you a chair out the hangout and get you some crash straps."

"So what's a crash strap when it's at home?"

Tara blinked.

"Oh, course you don't know. It's an emergency safety harness. Magnetic, right? So you can strap in anywhere on the ship."

"Right." Hermione said with a nod.

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Professor Ian Morgan was not a very happy man. For the past six weeks, he had been running virtually non-stop biofeedback experiments on the younger of his twin daughters; Diana. This was not something he wanted to be doing, but he didn't have any choice.

The Psi Corps in general and Psi Cop Marciad Garcia in particular had made very certain of that.

The experiment was supposed to radically increase Diana's psionic potential. The pain involved was not part of the plan.

He'd abandoned it after the first attempt had left Diana unable to stand for nearly a month. Then had come the attack. The three of them – and the biofeedback machine – had been grabbed by pirates and sold to the Psi Corps.

Once again, he weighed up his chances of breaking Garcia's face before the trio of power-armoured Psi Corps Enforcers could gun him down, and discarded the idea as pretty much impossible. Garcia smirked at him, perfectly aware of what he was thinking.

At that exact moment, the door came flying out of it's runners with a crash and a lanky lizard-eyed elf came careering into the room, accompanied by a roar of gunfire. He snap-kicked the nearest guard in the head so hard he broke the unfortunate man's neck, blew Garcia's brains out with an E-Mag (much to Ian Morgan's brief but intense pleasure) then double-tapped the two remaining guards before they had time to finish turning round.

"Professor Morgan, I presume?" he asked, holstering his giant handgun. Dr Morgan nodded doubtfully. "Thought so. They call me Slade Morley; I've been hired to retrieve you and your daughters, my client believes that morons like the Psi Pigs having Elaine and Diana Morgan would be a _seriously bad idea_ and I agree with her. Shut that thing down and yank her out of there."

"As you say." Morgan said, turning to the master console. He knew the drill here – it wasn't the first time he and his daughters had been the target of an extraction operation. At least this one didn't seem to be hostile. "I am afraid Elaine is not currently with us; she escaped almost a week ago."

"I know; we picked her up downtown right out of under the noses of a Psi Corps snatch team." Slade said with a casual shrug. There was a whine and click as the front of the biofeedback machine opened up, revealing Diana still strapped firmly into it's seat; her head was slumped over, blood was oozing from her nose, and she was whimpering like a kicked puppy.

"You can tell me what the gizmo does later." Slade remarked as Morgan freed Diana and lifted her out. Slade casually dosed her with a trank pistol, finally silencing her cries, then seemed to lose interest; he hefted the duffle bag off his shoulder, dumped it in the machine's seat, zipped it open, and typed a six-digit number into the keypad on the top of the metal canister within.

"We'd better get moving." He said, taking Diana off Morgan and slinging her over his shoulder in an impromptu fireman's carry. "In ten minutes, this place is going _bye-bye_."

And, with that, he sprinted out with a lightsabre in hand, straight into a blazing firefight; Morgan relieved one of the dead guards of his particle blaster and ducked out, keeping low. A massive Kenti in full landwarrior battledress was blasting away down the corridor, keeping what seemed to be half an army of power-armoured Psi Corps Enforcers down, while a lanky red-brown-haired Jedi was blocking any gunfire that was heading for himself, the Kenti, or the doorway; a tripod-mounted grav rifle with drab green furniture was adding it's weight to the Kenti's firepower, despite there being nobody to pull it's trigger.

Slade handed Diana to the Kenti, who tucked her down the front of his tactical vest without interrupting his fire pattern.

Then Slade lit his sabre, grabbed the tripod-mounted A-DRK, darted down to the first cross-corridor as the tripod folded itself up with a buzz and click, fired a burst in each direction handling the massive grav rifle like it was a pistol, and waved the group forwards. The Jedi went first, blocking particle beams left and right, with the Kenti right behind him pretty much propelling Morgan.

Behind them, the bomb's timer ticked down.

They headed straight for the stairs; they had a pretty clear run to the fifth floor, whereupon they hit the first Psi Corps ambush. By this time, the Jedi was covering the back while Slade covered the front; he glanced at his watch as they ducked into cover.

"Seven minutes thirty-six seconds." He snapped.

"Till what?" the Jedi asked.

"Till the ten kiloton mass-energy conversion bomb I left downstairs goes boom. Very, very, loudly." Slade snapped.

The Kenti frowned, loaded a round into his rifle's underslung launcher, popped the gun round the corner, and fired the launcher; the rocket-propelled plasma grenade ripped down the hallway and detonated in the middle of the barricade. The group erupted round the corner, lightsabres-first.

Each floor presented another barricade; on the seventh floor the Kenti took a particle beam in the left shoulder. He grunted, hooked his now-useless arm in his tactical vest, and proceeded to ignore the injury as Slade let off all three rounds from one of his wrist launchers at the barricade.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

As they hit the last floor before the roof (with another barricade to deal with) Harry was getting a little concerned.

They had two minutes fifty before the bomb went off.

**Carla, do you hear me?** He sent, firing his last wrist launcher round into the barricade as S'tarak'hai launched his last grenade.

_Yes, Master._ Came her faint reply. Harry knew that, to his fanatically-faithful familiar, when he 'sent' to her his voice sounded like the voice of God inside her head; her replies were a soft whisper in the back of his mind, barely audible over the storm of gunfire.

**We're heading for the roof with all kinds of shit after us and two minutes before the little surprise I left for the Psi Pigs goes sky-high; we're going to need pickup ASAP or this is going to become a last stand.**

There was a pause, probably Carla passing that on to the Blink Doggers, then her soft voice said, _We're on our way._

Harry didn't reply; he just kept shooting.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Well, I'd say you're space-worthy, Blink Dog." Control said.

"Roger that, Control." Alice replied. "Initiating tenth burn."

Just as she said that, Carla stiffened; her eyes went unfocused for a few moments.

"Master needs us." She said. "He's heading for the roof of the Psi Corps building in all sorts of trouble."

"Roger that sheila." Alice said.

Bruce flicked the ramp switch to 'Close'. Alice ran the shield charge to the max and clicked the switch that'd been manufacturing the problem with Number 4 turbine, and the two sat with their eyes glued to the ramp indicator light.

"What are you doing, Blink Dog?" Control asked.

The light went orange, telling Bruce the ramp was fully closed; he set the locks to on then sat back, checking his safety harness.

"Let's go get 'em, sis." He said.

"Blink Dog, you _do not_ have permission to launch." The space traffic controller ordered. "Repeat, you _do not_ have permission to launch. Shut down your vessel _immediately_ or we will be forced to-"

Alice switched off the radio and hauled the coaxial stick back. "No worries bro." The lift turbines flared out, digging six massive holes in the hardstand as they blasted the Blink Dog into the air. Tractor beams clawed at the ship, failing to find purchase on her hotrodded shields. Alice slapped the gear-up switch and kicked right pedal, and the nose spun towards the city. There was a thunderclap as the main engines revved up, and then the old blockade runner was barrelling through the city's aerial traffic with her bellypan a scant few metres from the skyline on a direct beeline for 138 Sanizein Way.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The small group of fugitives burst onto the roof and straight into about the last thing they'd wanted to see. There were lifters everywhere; Psi-SWAT personnel were dropping to the roof from transport aerodynes.

"Kess!" S'tarak'hai snarled. Harry dropped his grav rifle onto it's sling and grabbed his second lightsabre; the bullets and beams were coming quick and fast, and he could hear Psi Corps personnel pounding up the stairs behind them.

There was a roar building in the background, barely audible over the howl of gunfire and the snarl of lifters.

"This is not looking good, mate." Ben said.

And then the Blink Dog arrived, ramming half a dozen aerodynes out the sky as her retro-thrusters fired; her cargo ramp emergency released, caving in the top floor of the building and crushing thirty or forty Psi-SWAT personnel into the concrete as it's thirty-ton weight hit the concrete.

There was a heavy chug as a pair of ancient DKM machine guns opened up from inside the ship's hold.

The fugitive group didn't need to be told even once; they sprinted across the roof and onto the ramp, and a moment later their stomachs dropped as the Blink Dog peeled up and away.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"They're aboard!" Tara reported, in near-perfect chorus with Carla. Bruce slapped the ramp close, and with a yowl of battered hydraulics, the cargo ramp began to close; he grabbed the shipboard PA handset.

"Hold onto your hats peeps, we're outta here."

Alice hauled back on the stick, and the streets of Ironforge City dropped dizzyingly away from beneath the ship as the ramp light went orange and Bruce set the locks; a non-denominational spacer's prayer broke free from Alice's lips as the ramshackle old hot-rod's bow turned for the stars and the lock alarm became a steady scream:

"Lord don't let me fuck up."

Alice jammed her thumb down on the afterburner switch and rammed the main throttles to the firewall. The huge power dumps between the Blink Dog's vector plates spat sizzling storms of sheet lightning as they pumped gigawatt after gigawatt into the turbine blast, and then a split second later the plasma reaction caught up.

Every window on Sanizein Way blew in and cars were tossed like ninepins as the Blink Dog's massive afterburners lit up with a sound like an angry god; two seconds later, every window in Ironforge City followed their example as the travel-stained blockade runner smashed headlong through the sound barrier, clawing her way into the sky by sheer brute force alone.

Alice narrowed her eyes and glanced at the sensor panel; it was virtually greyed out by the number of hostiles.

"Well, that's the easy bit over with." She said.

Behind and below, the Psi Corps building at 138 Sanizein Way vanished in a picturesque mushroom cloud.

---End Chapter---

AN –

CLIFFIE!!!

Damn I had a pain with this chapter; this is about the fifth version. Gaaah!

For the purposes of this fic, the varied Warhammer 40,000 Ork clans are sort of like interstellar Hell's Angels, thus the comment about gang colours in connection to the Evil Sunz.

Elaine, Diana and Professor Morgan are loosely based on the versions from the Genocyber manga; as far as I know, Professor Morgan never actually had a canon name. The anime versions were extremely different and I haven't paid them much of any attention at all.

BlazeStryker, this was forwarded to me by a certain character:

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Dear BlazeStryker,

I've sent this to a certain author of our acquaintance in the hopes that he'll forward it to you; he's an odd egg, but as far as I can work out his sense of humour is weird enough for my purposes.

I'd like you to understand that, a year ago my time I was a perfectly ordinary girl genius from Bristol. I think it's been about ten months your time; the temporal differentiation between universes can be a real bitch, it's something like a variable between negative 666 to the power of 13 and 42 to the power of 108, and there's an ego factor in there – the calculations are an absolute nightmare, especially since it all relies on how fast the author can work out the plot; Professor Wodensdotter tried to explain it in Celestial Studies a couple months back, but only Luna seemed to really get it and I'm not sure if she was having Urd on; it's the sort of thing Luna does all the time.

But I digress. In the last year I've discovered one weird and disturbing thing after another; Einstein being wrong about that whole speed-of-light thing seriously shook me up, just as an example. The theory of relativity made perfect sense until I had to deal with magic (which can react in different ways depending on things like whether it's Tuesday, or whether your socks are blue, or even which way up you are in relation to the planet Golgafrincham) which completely threw everything out of whack because it breaks all the laws of physics – it even breaks the laws of thermodynamics, hell, it even breaks the law of conservation of energy; as far as I can work out, my aura breaks at least six laws of physics just by existing, which scares me witless whenever I sit down and think about it. At least EMC2 still works the way it's supposed to. At least, I think it does, at least where the Creator (whom Luna claims is Rob Zombie) isn't involved. And I'm pretty certain I'm just scraping the tip of the iceberg so far. I've got a feeling that it's eventually all going to make some sort of horrible sense, and with the way things have been going I'm pretty sure I really won't like it. Then again, it might not. We shall see.

Anyway, after me and Tara finished welding the gun-mount-cars to the deckplates, there wasn't much to do until Carla popped up, at which point the only thing I really had to do was sit around and be freaked out, so in the interim I got some thinking done and I realised that 'borderline psychotic predatory lesbian bondage killer catgirls' are just the sort of thing I should have expected Harry to have as pets, considering his dirty mind and his sense of humour. He's not exactly going to have a Jack Russell terrier, is he? I'm pretty sure doing things that disturb people is one of his favourite hobbies. Besides, I'm stuck in a universe that's being written by a somewhat perverted gun-mad Scottish nutter who's slightly fixated on the works of Masamune Shirow, so what do you expect?

Thanks for your note,

Hermione.

PS: The 'Fnord' thing came from the Illuminatus! trilogy by Robert Shea and Robert Anton Wilson, a duo of authors who're even weirder than Calum. I'm pretty sure Calum hasn't included much of anything from that series in the universe I'm stuck in since I can see the word 'Fnord' as can everyone I've checked with, but when I said something about Hagbard Celine he just smirked, so I can't be too certain about that; you'd have to ask Eris, but don't expect a straight answer, telling the undiluted truth isn't part of the job description for goddesses of discord.

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PLOT BUNNY: The Weasely's car, transform and roll out!

Seems one Arthur Weasely purchased a rusty old car to tinker with. How about if said rusty old car just so happened to be a rather battered yellow VW Beetle (or Chevvy Camaro) with an interesting logo on the bodyshell, and perhaps a bee-shaped air freshener hanging from the rear view mirror? Would a sentient robot from another planet get classed under the 'misuse of muggle artefacts' laws, and if so exactly what would a certain Autobot have to say about that? And quite what would he have to say about the twins' daring rescue of Harry Potter from the Dursleys household?

Anyways, that's me for now.

Doghead Out.


	4. Chapter 4

This ain't no self-insert fic

**This ain't no self-insert fic.**

**This ain't no slash fic neither.**

**This is Top Dog.**

--

_Run_

_Live to fly_

_Fly to live_

_Do or die_

_Won't you run_

_Live to fly_

_Fly to live_

_Aces high_

--

Flight Lieutenant Yriel Icefire, age twenty-two standard years, hadn't got much idea what the hell was going on. Less than two minutes ago, he'd been roused from his bunk by the howl of a general quarters alarm; within one minute twenty seconds he was scrambling into the flight deck, and he hit his interceptor's seat still fastening the tabs on his flightsuit. Within one minute forty-five second of the alarm beginning to wail, he was on the catapult and a split second after that he was in space, the thrusters of his Firecat hammering the seat into his back as he exploded out of the carrier with the throttles locked to the firewall. He was wide awake; his suit had detected his sleep-fogged state and hit him with a massive jolt of synthetic adrenaline.

As his HUD lit up with an intercept course, he had no idea that in seven minutes and thirty-eight seconds he would be dead.

--

If anyone had been outside the Blink Dog as she pounded her way into the sky, and if he'd been able to hear it over the deep-throated roar from her six massive electron-plasma thrusters and the eardrum-bursting supersonic shockwave peeling off her bow, he'd have heard the air screaming across her battered hide. Inside her hull, it was clearly audible; a spine-chilling whine on the edge of your nerves accompanied by a discordant chorus of creaks and groans from her ancient frame. Like many ships her age, almost every part bar one has been replaced at some point in her long lifetime; that part is of course her spaceframe. It's a network of fused girders extending from her spine and bracing her hull, and it is over twelve thousand years old.

But then, as any rat-rodder will tell you, as long as you've got a sound spaceframe, you have a starship. Never mind how many systems may be non-functional, never mind cracked glassteel and fractured armour plates, never mind electronics hanging by a thread and avionics held together by spit and prayers, never mind drained powerpacks and long-dead thrusters, never mind even the lack of environmental integrity; the spaceframe is the most vital component, and as long as her frame's still structurally sound, there's life in the old girl yet; you have a starship. If it's not, you have a pile of scrap metal; there's only one way to irreparably damage a starship, and that's to break her spine. Once her back's broken, the ship's soul is gone and she's a parts donor waiting to be picked away, piece by piece, until nothing but her bare bones remain to be chopped into chunks and hauled off to a sad end in a recycling plant's arc furnaces; it's the eventual fate of even the finest ships, but many soldier on for tens of thousands of years, generations of crew, centuries of electronics, before their spine finally breaks and they're just a fading memory.

The Blink Dog has a bent spine. A brutal emergency landing a century ago distorted her entire spaceframe, but didn't fracture it. She's wounded in a way that will never heal; that crash would have totalled most ships in her size class, but not a DX-32.

Never a Dx-32.

There's a reason the DX-32 Hellhound dropship is legendary; there are stories of those little ships making it home with their wings torn off, mains sparking, engines burning, powerpacks cracked, windows blown in, hulls twisted, undercarriages shot away, frames bent, cargo bays ripped open, and armour shredded like paper.

Those stories are true; it's a part of the design specs that it takes an insane amount of punishment to put a DX-32 down. Her Radiant Majesty's Armed Forces wanted a heavy dropship that would get the job done no matter what, and Mentler gave them exactly what they asked for. The DX-32s represent Kenti military engineering at its absolute finest; they're as tough as their namesakes.

Those little ships just don't know when to lie down and die.

A shell of plasma built around her bows as she crossed the Mach 7 mark at three hundred thousand feet altitude, and rapidly faded as she punched her way out of Azeroth Prime's atmosphere and barrelled into one of the galaxy's ten most comprehensive satellite defence grids.

Harry, Ben, Tara, Carla and S'tarak'hai came scrambling into the swaying cockpit and were met by the wail of lock alarms; Alice was hunched up over the control yokes, her right hand resting on the throttle rack and her lips peeled back from her teeth in a silent snarl, while Bruce crouched over the nose turret controls and did his level best to blow the salvoes of inbound missiles out of space.

The five didn't ask what to do; Tara jumped over the back of the navigator's station and started running final checks on the autopilot while the others got themselves onto the controls of most of the Dog's other turrets, which were currently running on auto, and started seeing what they could do about defensive fire; the automatic gunnery systems were six thousand year old Frououshtequoo parts that had been second rate before they got semi-knackered. The Blink Doggers had fished them out the Dachaigh Nuadh boneyards after the last set burned out.

"Harry mate, where's our drop point?" Bruce asked.

"An Sleamhnaich, Dachaigh Nuadh." Harry stated. "Washu's got her lab parked there at the moment."

Tara's hands flew over the navigation controls for a few moments, then she nodded and scrambled into the tailgunner's seat. "Course set. We're ready as soon as we're clear of the warp inhibiting fields."

"Roger that Nav, keep those bloody Firecats off our tail or we're for the long last spacewalk." Bruce said. "Where the fucking hell is that inhibitor satellite?"

"I have it locked, Captain." S'tarak'hai stated. "It's shields are too tough for this turret to handle; I believe a keelgun shot is in order."

"Roger." Alice snapped, and flung the helm to port.

The sport of asteroid racing is one of the most popular in known space. It takes place in dense asteroid belts, and is scored as follows. Each vessel competing begins the course with a set number of points. Every second the ship is on the course, points are lost. There are automated gun platforms armed with what are essentially gigantic paintball guns scattered throughout the course; every hit the ship takes loses points. Points may be regained by blowing gun drones out of space, or skimming within a hundred metres of an asteroid without a collision. Crashing forfeits the race, and frequently the crew's lives in the process. Ships run down the course individually. The ship with the highest score at the end of the day wins.

It is extremely exciting and extremely dangerous. Very few asteroid racing events take place without any fatal accidents; it's not hugely unusual for a crew to win an event by being the only crew to come out the other end of the course alive.

The Blink Dog had, long ago, been built as a military dropship. Then she was rendered obsolete by a cost-cutting measure and sold off, whereupon she knocked around the galaxy as a severely overpowered freighter for a few thousand years. Then a nut from Rokolushu bought her, did her up, and customised her into a vessel often called the second greatest asteroid racer ever built.

Since then, she's been crashed and patched back together, and her murals are a long-forgotten memory, their remnants covered by a thick coat of dirty grey thermocoat. But beneath that ugly paint job, for all her thrust balance is a bit screwed up by her distorted frame, she is still a top-notch asteroid racer.

And punching out of a satellite defence grid as dense as the one around Azeroth Prime is remarkably like the biggest, baddest, sweatiest, highest-stakes asteroid race you could possibly imagine.

In that cloud of gunsats, the Blink Dog was in her element. She twisted and turned, rolling through entire constellations of missiles, her turrets spitting a coruscating pattern of energy weapons fire; positron blaster bolts like those fired by the Dog's turrets travel at lightspeed. Flashing beams of death slammed back and forth; satellites and missiles were speared and exploded as the halo of firepower erupted from the little rat-rod. Any normal freighter would have been bracketed and torn to shreds in seconds.

But not a DX-32.

Never a DX-32.

--

**Disclaimer: There are three types of blockade runner pilots – the desperate, the crazy, and the patriotic. **

**You be the judge of which type Alice Lynette Walker is.**

--

**Top Dog: Enter the Fnords**

**Intermission 1: Harry Johnson and the Lunatic Scientist**

**A Doghead13 / United Galaxies fanfic**

**Written & produced by Calum J 'Doghead13' Wallace**

**Preread by KuroNeko**

**Hosted by Studio Asynjor**

**Brought to you by Hairy Scottish Git Productions, GMBH**

**This is not a drill.**

--

**Chapter 4: In space, nobody can hear you swear.**

**(In which our crew have a slight technical hitch.)**

Yriel blinked as he picked the bandit up on his gravidar. A light freighter? What the hell was one of those doing trying to bust out of Azeroth Prime?

He glanced at the velocity readings, and let out a low whistle. Whoever owned that truck had something insane crammed into the stern; she was sitting on nearly a thousand G's acceleration. That was well into fightercraft territory.

"Seventeen seconds to intercept." His flight leader stated. "Weapons free. All elements, break and attack!"

Yriel rammed the afterburner switch wide open; the seat gave him another slap in the back, and the range to intercept started ticking down.

"Last one to hull him buys the beer." His wingman said. Yriel chuckled; trust Saze to come out with something like that.

"Let's blow this cow out of space."

And then he was in range.

Yriel dropped his Firecat's sights onto the speeding hot-rod and squeezed the cannon trigger.

--

The storm of railgun slugs hammered into the Dog's rear shields, causing another alarm to start wailing; Alice cursed and hauled back on the stick, but a Firecat interceptor is somewhat more agile than a DX-32 rat-rod and Yriel easily kept his aim on the speeding blockade runner. The rear shields strobed three times and went down as a projector module burned out, allowing Yriel's next few shots to tear into the rear of the Dog's hull, eliciting a cloud of venting atmosphere as he ripped a hole in her right flank at A-deck cabin 18, blowing the hull on her aft starboard stairwell and engine room in the process.

Then Tara successfully bracketed the fighter with the tail turret, and sent a wall of fire into the Firecat, blasting it's left wing off and sending it into a flat spin as it lost any semblance of thrust balance; then it was under S'tarak'hai's sights right as Yriel yanked on the eject handle. The big catman's salvo tore the crippled fighter into a cloud of shattered debris, from which the unfortunate pilot did not escape; a particle bolt vaporised his upper half right as the ejection charge fired, and the rest of him explosively decompressed.

And then Alice had the keelgun lined up on the interdictor satellite.

She said, "Say cheese, motherfucker." and hit the trigger.

The entire ship shook with a shattering roar as the massive weapon spoke; in her keelgun conduit, a cartridge case the size of a compact car slammed out of the breech as the gigantic slug belched from the weapon's muzzle. The interdictor satellite was blown into a rapidly-expanding cloud of hot gas as the compact nuclear bomb piled headlong into it and detonated, sheeting radiation across the Blink Dog's slightly battered shields as she blasted through the remnants of the satellite.

Inside the cockpit, the warp interference dropped to nominal. Alice let out a howl of glee, dropped the throttles to idle, clicked them all the way across to the left and ran them to the firewall. The stars exploded in an avalanche of multi-coloured light as the old ship blew past the light barrier, and Bruce punched a triumphant fist into the air.

"Signed, sealed, DELIVERED!" he yelled. "No worries!"

"You know, I'm glad the Alliance doesn't have anything like a Bolo." Harry remarked, rolling up a cigarette.

"Crikey mate, you said the B-word." Alice remarked.

"Didn't anyone ever tell you not to say the B-word?" Tara casually asked.

"Nope." Harry said.

"How's damage control looking?" Bruce asked, getting back to the subjects that actually mattered.

"We've got three evacuated compartments." Tara said. "A-deck cabin 18, the starboard aft stairwell, and… oh boy, the engine room. I'm going to go suit up; coming, Chief?"

Bruce nodded. Harry too rose to his feet.

"I'm gonna go have a bit of a chin-wag with our passengers. Where's the Morgan girl?"

"She's in the brig." Bruce said.

Harry stifled a sigh.

"Bruce Walker, you're a bloody moron. We're moving her to your sickbay."

"Look here mate, I'm not sure about that." Bruce growled. "What if she wakes up?"

"Do I have to remind you latent psionics react to stress?" Harry asked. "The more stressed a Genocyber gets, the closer they get to going sky-high. Which would you prefer – her waking up in a cage in your brig, or right next to her father and sister in your medbay? Think about it this way; which is more likely to freak her out and thereby make her go 'boom'?"

"Oh." Bruce muttered. He thought about that for a moment, then tossed Harry some keys and went to suit up.

--

Hermione was feeling pretty shaken up. There had been a string of immense percussive blows to the ship, which had felt pretty close by; she was rather relieved when Harry opened the brig door.

"Harry!"

"Hey, kiddo." He said, and proceeded to unlock the cage containing Elaine Morgan and pull her out.

"What happened?" Hermione asked, fumblingly unstrapping herself. "What's going on?"

"The ship took a hit to the tail." Harry said. "We're clear, but one of the cabins across the hall is short one atmosphere. Same goes for the engine room and the aft starboard stairs. Bruce and Tara just went to make some emergency repairs, and I'm moving this poor bloody kid to the medbay."

"Bruce said-"

"Fuck what Bruce said, he wasn't thinking things through; if this poor bloody kid wakes up in a stressful environment, BOOM!" Harry snarled. "Bye-bye the whole bloody lot of us. C'mon."

"I guess the red light on that door means there's no air the other side of it, right?" Hermione checked, pointing, as they left the brig.

Harry nodded.

"Got it in one. That's A-deck cabin 18, which currently has a line of holes the size of golf balls in it's ceiling. Good thing there wasn't anyone in that section, being sucked through a hole that's way smaller than you is not what I'd call a nice way to go."

--

Carla was waiting by the door when Harry and Hermione arrived at B-deck cabin six, the room Harry had left Diana and Professor Morgan in.

He nodded at her and opened the door. The two Morgans were still strapped into the cabin's two crash couches.

"Mr Morley." Professor Morgan said.

"Professor Morgan." Harry replied. He pointed at Diana. "Carla, get her to sickbay."

Carla nodded and hastened to unstrap the tranked girl.

"Mind if I ask you something, Mr Morley?" Professor Morgan asked, watching Carla carry Diana out the cabin.

"Go ahead."

"Who the hell _are_ you?"

"I have several names." Harry told him. "Slade Morley is the identity I used back in my tomb-raiding days; I had several run-ins with the Psi Pigs while using that identity. As a martial arts movie star, I was Jason Lee. As a dragon, I am Lord Stormclaw the Magnificent. But these days I am generally known as Harry Johnson. I also answer to Long Ears, Spock, or Oh Fuck It's _Him_."

"And are you willing to tell me who you're working for?"

"Of course." Harry said. "I was hired through Gringotts Merchant Bank by Doctor Washu Hakubi, who's interested in Elaine."

To his credit, Professor Morgan managed to suppress the startled look.

"Why?" he asked. "Elaine's only a P7 telepath. Why would Doctor Hakubi go to the expense of hiring a mercenary team to retrieve a P7?"

"So they didn't tell you?" Harry asked. "Typical… hmm, maybe they didn't know either. Gotta remember this is the Psi Pigs we're talking about, they're a bunch of fucking morons."

"Tell me what?" Morgan growled.

Harry heaved a sigh. "I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but… Elaine Morgan happens to be a latent Genocyber."

"… My God." The good Professor mumbled.

"Yeah. That's what I thought." Harry agreed. "I'm pretty certain the Psi Corps didn't know; when I tranked her, she was on a razor's edge of going off. I don't know what Washu's got planned, but… shit, it's got to be better than your daughter going sky-high in downtown Ironforge."

"Can I see her?" Morgan asked.

"On one condition." Harry said.

"What's that?"

"I've got her tranked to the eyeballs, but there's a slim chance she'll come round before schedule." Harry stated. "If she comes round, **nobody** tell her what she is. Otherwise…" He made an exploding sound. "Let's just say we'd all be sitting in a cloud."

"I see." Professor Morgan thought about it for a while. "Have you any idea what Doctor Hakubi intends for Elaine?"

"No idea." Harry said with a shrug. "I take my paycheck and don't ask any questions. That said, I don't think you need to be particularly worried; Washu's good people, she never means harm and rarely does any, and I think you can work out who's the only person in the galaxy liable to be able to help your daughter with this Genocyber thing. Put it another way; Washu Hakubi doesn't exactly need to kidnap psionics scientists, what she doesn't know about psionics isn't worth knowing, and if she'd intended to do the sensible thing and quietly inject Elaine with a lethal dose of tranks, why would she need you and Diana?"

"A valid point." Professor Morgan said. "Presumably her requirements involve the immense energy one such as Elaine is capable of producing – but what worries me is whether that energy can be accessed without killing the source."

"Right now she'd be better off dead." Harry stated. "She was one step from going sky-high when I drained the emotions out of her and tranked her, and for all I know she could be on a hair trigger right now." He sighed. "Poor bloody kid… I wish I'd had time to do something a sight messier than a ten kiloton nuke to those goddamned bastards. Come on; you'd best be in sickbay yourself in case either of your daughters shrugs the tranks off, I don't need a terrified Genocyber _or_ a freaked-out P12 onboard this ship, and I doubt there's anyone but you who'd be able to talk either of 'em down."

--

Having got the Morgans situated, Harry proceeded down to the cargo bay along with Hermione and Carla to deal with the other little memento of this operation; the Orc gang car.

He found Bruce dubiously contemplating the car; the captain and Tara had just got done removing the old Clanguard staff cars from the floor and stowing them in their corners.

"So what are we going to do with that car?" Bruce asked, pointing at the vehicle Harry was heading for.

"We kick it out the airlock in deep space." Harry said, slouching round the back of the car. "But first I gotta find out who's in the boot."

"Waddya mean, who's in the boot?"

"I mean there's someone in the boot. Felt their Force signature." He unearthed one of his Allen keys, stuck it in the lock of the car's boot, had a root around, then smugly opened the boot

"Hmm. Interesting." He said.

"Harry, what the Hell is…?" Hermione complained, staring at the contents of the boot.

"Well, from the collar and chain, and the dirt, and the bruises on her, I'd say she's some Orc's pet punchbag." Harry said with a shrug. He turned to Carla. "Get her out of there, get her cleaned up and in clothes worth the term, and get some food in her."

With that, he seemed to completely lose interest and went to investigate the glove compartment.

Carla shrugged, picked up the filthy preteen girl who was crouching in the car's boot, looked slightly annoyed, snapped the chain off the girl's collar with a slight whine from her cybernetics, and proceeded towards the starboard aft stairs.

Finishing unlocking the glove compartment, Harry had a root around, then noted a severely freaked-out-looking Hermione staring in the general direction Carla had gone.

"There are some sick, sick people in this galaxy, kiddo." He said.

Hermione stared for a few more moments, then nodded, her expression blank.

"I'd realised there were a lot of, well, slaves in the galaxy." She said, sounding shaken up. "But I guess I didn't really realise just what that means." She shook her head. "I have trouble believing such an advanced civilisation carries on the barbarity of slavery."

Harry gave her one of his sideon looks.

"It's simple." He said. "In this universe, there's only one law that lasts; whoever's got the biggest gun is right by default. That always has been and always will be the way of the galaxy. Might makes right. Strong dominates weak. Rich rule over poor. Haves and have-nots. It's just the same on Earth, you Earthers just use hard cash instead of guns and chains. Sufficiently advanced technology has a habit of devaluing sentient life; when you can create a sentient being from raw materials, and I'm not talking biomass, and you know exactly what it'll cost you to create a sentient being, and you know exactly how to configure that sentient being's synapses so they'll think the way you want, it's startlingly easy to put a price tag on a sentient life."

"… oh."

"In case you were wondering, that price tag is about two hundred New Aussie dollars." Harry continued. "Works out as about fourteen hundred UK pounds. That, Hermione, is the price of a human life. Just over half the known galactic population are slaves, either technically speaking – feudal serfs, pureblood wives, you know the drill – or literally. They're property, without any rights or legal protection, to be bought sold and disposed of on a whim. That, Hermione, is the galaxy we live in." He caught the dawning look of anger on Hermione's face, and gave her a level look. "Don't lecture me, Hermione. I happen to rather enjoy being able to go buy me a cute babe any time I like; you'd be wasting your breath. Guns, gold, girls. That's my top priorities right there. You've got no problem with a humanic owning a few monkeys, so how do you get off having a problem with a dragon owning a few furless apes?"

"That's different!"

"How so? Monkeys are pretty smart critters – smarter than a lot of people I've encountered over the years." Harry shrugged. "You're forgetting something very important, Hermione."

"Like what?" Hermione snapped.

"Like the fact you're talking to someone who kills for cash and doesn't ask much in the way of questions." Harry stated. "I am not a knight in shining armour, kiddo. I am not some modern-day Robin Hood; I am a mercenary gunman specialising in making people dead. The only jobs I won't take involve murdering or kidnapping children, or fucking over the remarkably small number of people I actually like. I can't say I approve of the way this galaxy works, but…" He turned round and looked Hermione in the eyes. "I sure as hell am going to milk their system for everything it's got. I want their weaponry, I want their money, I want their chicks, and I can't say I particularly care about how many ant piles I have to kick over to get my way."

Hermione glared at him, opened her mouth, changed her mind, closed her mouth, and went storming off upstairs; Harry sighed and shook his head.

"Well, that went better than I expected… shit; I swear I'll never understand that girl." He said.

"Women are a bit like supernovas." Tara remarked. "We're a mysterious and awesome power than no man can ever truly understand or control."

S'tarak'hai entered the cargo bay just too late to catch that; he made as if he was about to say something, but changed his mind when Harry burst out laughing.

The big catman gave the weredragon mercenary an odd look and hastily evacuated the area, while Harry continued cackling like a madman because he was pretty sure Tara didn't know just how appropriate that remark was considering that Hermione was one of only two beings known to be capable of truly controlling a supernova.

And besides, he needed a laugh – it was the only way he knew of relieving the tension that didn't involve getting smashed on some kind of less-than-legal substance and or engaging in a marathon sex session.

--

The Dog was nearing the edge of the dead zone when Harry came slouching back into the wheelhouse. Most of the crew were sprawled around in the varied flight crew seats; in fact, the only member of the Dog's current company not present was Carla, who was down in the sickbay dealing with the varied parasites and badly-treated injuries the small girl they'd found in the Orc gang car was suffering from.

"Well, so far so good."

Right as Harry said that, there was a deafening BANG from astern, and they were suddenly in the dark and in freefall.

"Well, **shit**." Bruce said. There was a click as Harry switched on his rifle's tactical light; S'tarak'hai rapidly followed suit.

Every control console was dark and dead, the lights were off, the grav generators were out, and the almost-subliminal hum of the fusion reactor was notable by it's absence.

"What in the fuck was that?" Tara asked.

Alice tapped hopefully at a few buttons, then sat back, making a helpless gesture.

"The powerplant's out. We're dead in space."

"I guess that hit _did_ damage our power systems." Tara muttered.

"Well, _shit_." Bruce repeated.

"Great, me and my big mouth." Harry muttered. "How far away are we from anywhere?"

"Nearest inhabited system is about six light years." Tara told him.

Bruce nodded. "Right. If we haven't got the mains back in an hour, we yell for help. Let's do it, people."

"Bro, we _can't_ send out a distress signal even if we get emergency power." Alice pointed out. "We're still in the dead zone."

"If it comes to the crunch, we can wake up Diana Morgan; she's a P12 telepath." Harry said. "How long have we got air and heat for?"

"Two hours tops." Bruce told him. "Air ain't the main problem, it's the temperature that'll get us."

"No it's not." Tara growled. "It's the bloody Alliance, innit? They're only about an hour behind us."

"How far are we from the edge of the dead zone?" Harry asked.

"Three bloody lights, why?" Tara answered with a question.

"Because if we can get life support, airlock control and the tractor beams online I can tow the Blink Dog out of here myself. As soon as we clear the Cluster we've got at least the one functioning subspace door onboard – it's not like those things plug into the mains – and that way if the Alliance try to board us we've got a way of letting Ben's old man know they're breaking international law."

"Since it seems to have slipped your mind, you just broke a whole load of laws back there." Hermione pointed out. "Never heard of the term 'Fugitive'?"

Harry snorted.

"So what? We're onboard a League-registered starship. Ergo, we're in League sovereign territory, and I'd hazard a guess Ben's old man won't have much interest in extraditing us; problem is, if we're incommunicado the goddamn Psi Corps ain't above just boarding us anyway and making the lot of us disappear, hazards of interstellar travel don't you know. Of course, it'd be better if we can get the Hell out of here without going to Chaos, I don't feel like owing him another one, he tends to call in favours at the most bloody awkward moments." Harry turned to Bruce. "Well, let's see what we can dig up in that scrapyard you call a cargo bay; ain't no time for playing sea-sick."

--

Professor Morgan was just becoming a little concerned when the medbay door creaked open and Harry floated in.

"Mr Morley." He said.

"Fraid we've got a little technical problem." Harry said. "That hit we took to the stern on the way out must've done something nasty to our power systems, and it chose a convenient time to go pop. Carla, come on – we're needing everyone we can get to root around in that junkheap of a cargo bay. Morgan, you know how to manouvere in freefall?"

"No." Morgan said. "It's a little outside my area."

"Oh well, thought not. You'd better sit tight." He turned to the little girl. "Same goes for you, kid; stay where you are."

The girl nodded, her eyes wide, and Harry grinned at her and boosted himself out the medbay, rapidly followed by Carla.

--

"Oh boy, here's the culprit." Tara said.

"Strewth! So that's where that bloody railgun slug went." Bruce muttered.

The warp coil had basically exploded, and it was fairly obvious why; the railgun slug that had blown the pressure on the engine room had entered the warp drive bay and embedded itself in the negative-end vibration damper, seizing the whole thing solid. From the look of things, as soon as the warp coil was under power, it had started vibrating as per design, only one end was held rigid due to a jammed damper – and the vibrations had built up until they finally reached the critical point and shattered the coil.

Unfortunately, the resulting power surge had fried the cables back to the reactor. The powerpack's etherium rods were scorched and cracked, and there was even char on the fusion reactor's contacts – fortunately, the reactor's safeties had cut in and shut it down, and it looked like the breakers on the ship's ring main had done their job.

"Start stripping out what's left of the warp mains." Bruce said. "Let's see if we can get enough cable to link the powerplant back into the ring main."

Tara nodded, and the two of them hastened towards the spine conduit.

--

Everyone met up in the medbay about twenty minutes later, primarily because they'd decided Professor Morgan could do with knowing exactly what was going on.

"The warp coil's toast." Tara explained. "Unfortunately, it took out the main power shunts from the reactor, and the surge cracked the etherium powerpacks. If we had another twelve metres of mains-grade cable, we'd be able to get the reactor linked in, get the tractor beams online and get the Hell out of here. As it stands…" She shrugged. "I'm all out of ideas."

"If the coil was in one piece, we could haul some of the avionics down the engine room, rig up that spare throttle rack, and get out of here that way, but then if wishes were beers we could all get pissed." Bruce said.

"Harry, haven't you got a warp coil?" Hermione queried. Bruce and Tara perked up a bit.

Harry nodded. "Yeah. Two stumblers there though. One, it's a Block Twenty layout so it wouldn't fit into the Dog's drive bays without some serious modifications to the mounting points. And two, it's currently inside a portable hole that's built into a skirt that Kitten's currently wearing, and she's in my road-train on Earth."

"Fuck." Hermione muttered.

"Well, so much for that." Bruce said, and everyone lapsed into silence.

**--End Chapter--**

AN –

And, after a slight unexpected delay, there's Chapter the Fourth, and another cliffie. Courtesy of something KuroNeko pointed out, I've had to rework a few details here and there, but then it was a plot hole, so…

To 'Hull' a starship is to score a hit that penetrates the target's shields and leaves a hole in the hull. Starship armour is impregnable to almost all man-portable weapons, in fact, there aren't a whole load of weapons that exist on present-day Earth that could punch through a starship's armour; it's even good against nuclear weapons with a yield below about five kilotons, though the plate that directly took the nuke will thenceforth have all the structural integrity of wet toilet paper, but against something like an anti-starship missile, a starfighter's rail cannons or an Arcadian dragon's breath weapon, it might as well be an old tin can.

The duranium armour plating on the hull of a smallship like the Blink Dog is not designed to protect the vessel against starship-mounted weaponry. It only takes a hole the size of a pinprick in the right place to kill the crew; being explosively decompressed through an itty bitty hole is not a nice way to die.

The armour exists for two reasons; to protect the vessel from small arms fire (whether man-portable anti-aircraft weapons fired at the ship during atmospheric flight, or weapons discharged within the ship during a boarding or counterboarding operation) and to allow the ship to re-enter with her shields switched off without the danger of being vaporised by re-entry plasma; re-entering with your shields activated is widely regarded to be a threatening gesture as it makes the ship decidedly tricky to shoot down with a stationary ground-based air defence system.

In short, if incoming fire is hitting your hull, you're in deep shit whether or not it's currently punching holes in said hull.

Doghead Out.


	5. Chapter 5

This ain't no self-insert fic

**This ain't no self-insert fic.**

**This ain't no slash fic neither.**

**This is Top Dog.**

--

_There is a town that once was green_

_And the river flowed to the sea_

_The river flows forever on_

_But the dear green place is gone_

--

"I'm out of ideas." Harry admitted, glancing at his watch. "Twenty minutes… shit, maybe I could step outside and introduce the bastards to my halitosis."

"The amount we've got piling down on our backs, even an Arcer were would get ripped to shreds." Ben remarked.

"I think we're approaching this from the wrong direction." Hermione said.

"Well, what other bloody directions are there anyway?" Bruce growled.

"How much does the reactor weigh, and is it portable?" Hermione asked.

"It's two metres tall by three wide, and weighs thirty-six bloody tons." Bruce said. "You need a bloody forklift to shift it."

"Well, it doesn't weigh much of _anything_ right now." Hermione pointed out. "Have you somehow managed to _forget_ we're in _freefall_? And I figure a cyborg soldier and a weredragon could do a pretty good impression of a forklift anyway."

Tara and Bruce stared at each other with near-identical 'wait-a-minute' expressions for about ten thousandths of a second, then went scooting off down the corridor towards the engine room, rapidly followed both by S'tarak'hai and by Harry.

"Why didn't I think of that?" Alice muttered.

--

Alice waited until everyone had said they were ready, then glanced at the jury-rigged mess they'd made of the emergency power bay.

"Come on, baby." She muttered, and turned the keyrod.

There was a click, the familiar CRACKthrummm of the reactor igniting, a lot louder than was normal but then nothing but air separated it from her, and then everything lit up, one panel after another, as the ship's internal lighting flickered fitfully into life. The gravity came up slowly, lowering her gently into the pilot's seat; she let out a howl of glee, echoed by incoherent yells from Bruce and Tara as they listened to the clunks and rattles of thousands of loose objects settling to the floor and the gentle, comforting near-subliminal hum of the little hot-rod's gravity, life support, navigational shields and power systems; there was a click and whoosh as the life support, sensing the deteriorating conditions aboard, powered up every fan and heater. Bruce punched a fist into the air in the age-old gesture of triumph, and Tara gave the fusion reactor a kiss right on the top of the casing.

"Life support orange and headed for the green zone." Alice reported. "Power at 90 percent and holding; turbine startup in twelve. Gravity nominal. Helm nominal, navigational shields online and looking good. Onboard auxiliaries nominal. All sensors online. We have startup; all turbines nominal and idling at eight percent power. Fire control good to go. Subspace on offline standby. Harry mate, we're ready to get the Hell out of here."

Harry nodded and headed for the A-dock airlock at a flat-out sprint.

--

It took them twenty minutes to exit the dead zone. Another two for Harry to get back onboard. Then Tara checked the nav console and nodded to Alice; Alice reached up to the dive lever on the overhead console, glanced at the subspace drive's status monitor, muttered Shepard's Prayer, and clicked the lever three-quarters of the way down.

There was a growl from the direction of the engine room; the fabric of space broke across the Blink Dog's bow in a picturesque shower of random probability as she ploughed under.

Alice let out a quiet sigh, and clicked the autopilot on; the main turbines revved up, flinging the little ship forwards.

"Look out Clanspace." Bruce said. "Here we come, ready or not."

The Dog's subspace drive wasn't exactly the newest, nor was it anything like as hot as the recently-deceased warp drive; at her deepest safe dive depth, she'd only just scrape 120 lights per hour at full steam ahead. That would add nearly twenty hours to their ETA at Dachaigh Nuadh; an hour to the time it'd take them to reach the Alliance border.

But it was far preferable to being stuck in realspace at sub-luminal velocity, and anyway the Alliance didn't go in for much in the way of subspace technology since it was useless within a few hundred lights of the Alliance's home system.

It'd take them longer than warp. But they'd get there – slowly but surely.

--

**Disclaimer: Shocking customs personnel can be a bad idea.**

--

**Top Dog: Enter the Fnords**

**Intermission 1: Harry Johnson and the Lunatic Scientist**

**A Doghead13 / United Galaxies fanfic**

**Written & produced by Calum J 'Doghead13' Wallace**

**Preread by KuroNeko**

**Hosted by Studio Asynjor**

**Brought to you by Hairy Scottish Git Productions, GMBH**

**This is not a drill.**

--

**Chapter 5: Another man's mess.**

**(In which our crew arrive at their destination)**

Some people regard space travel as the last great adventure. They claim it has the romanticism of sea travel in the age of sail; they go on about freedom, finding your destiny, glory, and things like that.

But for most owner-operators, it's more like long-haul trucking crossed with intercontinental air travel – in other words, you spend a lot of time sat around watching the odometer; for anything but an adult dragon, it's at least thirty hours from the Azeroth cluster to Dachaigh Nuadh. For the Blink Dog's elderly subspace drive, it was the equivalent of flying a subsonic jet from Britain to New Zealand then, on arriving, promptly turning round and flying back again without so much as lowering the landing gear; it took the old ship the best part of fifty hours to cross that six thousand light year gulf.

By the time the Dog rose out of subspace, reality itself breaking across her bow like the sea across the foredecks of a U-boat, Hermione had gone to bed, had a good night's sleep, got back up, spent the day aimlessly browsing the Net and getting increasingly annoyed at Harry, gone to bed again, had another good night's sleep, spent another day browsing, gone to bed _again_, and was now halfway through breakfast. In that time, Diana Morgan had come close to surfacing once, and Elaine had nearly woken up three times, leaving Carla (now being backed up by Kitten) with fried nerves.

Seeing the monotonous blank whiteness of subspace being washed away by the blackness and uncountable stars of realspace, she looked up from her bacon and ruminations.

"Don't get excited yet." Tara advised, seeing her expression. "We're still about an hour out… Hey, are you okay?"

"Oh, I'm fine." Hermione said.

Tara gave her a level look. "Hermione, we've been roommates for the best part of an Earther year; I can tell when something's bothering you. You're not okay; if you were okay, you wouldn't be so distracted. It's like you haven't really been able to focus on anything since we left the Cluster."

Hermione grimaced and put the Guide down. "Is it that obvious? Shit."

"So… are you okay?"

"I told you, I'm fine." Hermione said. "You know – fucked up, insecure, neurotic and emotional."

Tara snorted. She'd heard that one before.

"So, what's bothering you? Wanna talk about it?"

"I guess." Hermione said, frowning. "It's Harry. I… shit, I'm only just starting to really realise what belonging to him really means, and I dunno whether I'm cool with it. I mean, don't get me wrong, I trust him with my life – but, what's the _deal_ with that whole slavery thing? With the way he grew up, how can he be so… so… so _laid back_ about it?"

"I'm not sure." Tara said, considering that. "I mean, okay, I read those newspaper articles, and I got hold of some intelligence reports about all that, and I saw the way he reacted to what Malfoy did to his familiar. Something just doesn't add up, does it? I mean, okay, I know he's a mess of fetishes, but I also know he's a hell of a lot more than he seems. He's a hell of a lot more than just a mercenary, that's one thing that's for sure."

"I know that." Hermione said. "Well, I'd guessed that. The way Ben and S'tarak'hai and the goblins treat him with so much respect… there's something going on I don't know about."

Tara nodded thoughtfully. "Yeah. S'tarak'hai doesn't trust just _anyone_; if S'tarak'hai respects someone, they've earned it. I mean, I know he rescued my- he rescued Princess Zarie from the Nalfers, but there's more to it than just that." She shook her head. "I asked S'tarak'hai about it a while back, and he wouldn't say anything more than, 'He is a good man'." She managed to sound startlingly like the massive landwarrior when she said that. "I'm pretty sure it'll all start making sense sooner or later."

"Me too." Hermione said. "And I get the feeling I'm really not going to like the sense it's going to make."

"Life's like that." Tara said with a sigh. "Especially when you're dealing with large dangerous supernatural creatures."

"Large dangerous… Tara, what are you talking about?"

"Well, what else do you call a heavily cyborged Arcadian-cross weredragon with shellshock and reflexes like a ferret on pixie sticks?" Tara asked. "I mean apart from 'Harry' that is."

"I can think of some possibilities." Hermione remarked.

"Like what?"

"Like 'that big pervert' or 'you jerk' or 'old lizard eyes'. Or…"

"Or what?" Tara asked.

"Or 'Master'." Hermione said, staring off out the nearest porthole.

Tara contemplated that for a bit, then shook her head.

"You're just as mixed-up as he is, aren't you?" she asked.

"Yeah." Hermione admitted, absently fingering her collar.

--

Up in the cockpit, Alice was trying to stay calm as she took the mike off it's hook and squeezed the transmit button down. The comms chatter and many active sensor stations were helping her relax, but she wouldn't be totally steady until they were dirtside and had the gaping holes in the ship's upper flank patched.

"Dachaigh Nuadh STC, this is the LSS-17332 Blink Dog requesting clearance to land at An Sleamhnaich. Over."

"LSS-17332 Blink Dog, we have you on the scope; you are cleared to begin approach, lane 211. It's a scorcher down here, wind speed is 2 knotts south-southeast at the tower, surface temperature's on the high side of 55 Celsius, humidity nominal, and we've nothing but blue skies for a couple thousand kays; you'll be getting a nice smooth ride in. Over."

Alice smiled and nudged the control yokes forwards, aiming the bow towards the glittering gem of a planet that hung below them. "Roger that, Control. We're going to have to set our shields to combat mode for re-entry; we've got a couple dozen railgun holes in our hull. Over."

"Roger that, Blink Dog; you have permission to set shields to combat mode. Are you in need of assistance? Over."

"That's a negative, Control. We're a bit shook up, but the shields should be enough for the deceleration plasma and nobody aboard took a hit. This is the LSS-17332 on approach. Over."

"Roger that, Blink Dog. Over."

And the blue-green planet began to slowly grow in the windscreen.

--

Half an hour later, they were just beginning to brush the ionosphere. By this time, everyone was strapped in; the Morgans and Carla in the medbay, everyone else on the bridge.

"Dachaigh Nuadh STC, this is the LSS-17332 Blink Dog requesting permission to re-enter. Over." Alice said.

"Blink Dog, you are cleared to begin re-entry procedures. Good luck. Over."

"Thanks, Control. Over." Alice dialled the shields to the combat setting as the old ship's nose met the upper atmosphere; plasma built around the hull as the ship slammed into the air at twenty-five times the speed of sound.

"Range twenty thousand kilometres. Velocity Mach 25. Shields well into the green zone and holding." Alice reported.

"Roger." Bruce said.

The ship ploughed on through the atmosphere, carving a glowing line across the Dachaigh Nuadh sky. The crew were silent as the air howled past the shields and the altimeter and speed ticked down; soon the howl became a rumble as the plasma dispersed, then the rumble a smooth whispering sound.

"Range one hundred kilometres, altitude ten thousand metres and falling. Velocity five hundred knotts." Alice finally reported.

"Roger." Bruce said. Alice triggered the mike.

"Control, this is the LSS-17332 Blink Dog requesting vector for final approach. We're looking good from this end. Over."

"Roger that, Blink Dog. You look okay from this end too, but I've got crash teams standing by and am giving you priority for landing, just in case… LSS-17332 Blink Dog, you are cleared for final approach, runway 14, slip 77. Welcome to An Sleamhnaich, capital of the Clanspace Alliance. Over."

"Roger that, Control, and thanks; we'll see you on the ground in five. Over." Alice replied, turning the ship to the right and bringing her bow in line with the distant runway.

Again, the crew lapsed into silence, broken only by the gentle growl of the fusion reactor and the whisper of air flowing past the Blink Dog's hull.

"Range one kilometre, altitude one hundred metres. Velocity two hundred forty-nine knotts; undercarriage down and locked. Deploying airbrakes."

"Roger." The hydraulics rumbled, and the whisper became a roar as air was slammed upwards by the vents and vanes that opened in the Dog's wings.

"Range seven hundred and fifty metres, altitude seventy-five metres, one hundred ninety-eight knotts"

"Roger."

"Range five hundred metres, altitude fifty metres, one hundred sixty-eight knotts."

"Roger."

"Range two hundred fifty metres, altitude twenty-five metres, ninety-eight knotts.

"Roger."

"Range one hundred metres, altitude ten metres, eighty-seven knotts."

"Roger."

"Range fifty metres, altitude five metres, seventy-five knotts."

"Roger."

There was a tremendous percussive **WHAM** as the tyres met tarmac.

"We have touchdown." Alice stated, the relief audible in her voice as she drove the brake pedals to the floor, the tyres howled, and the braking thrusters bellowed. Bruce released the breath he'd been holding and dialled the shields back to the standby position as the ship dropped to taxi speed.

"Sheilas and blokes, this is your captain speaking." He said, the relief likewise audible in his voice. "That one's in the bag."

"All down in one piece, Blink Dog? Over." the traffic controller checked.

"Roger that, Control, and thanks. Over." Alice replied, guiding the ship onto the taxiways.

--

The planet known as Dachaigh Nuadh is one of the many accidentally-founded colonies in the galaxy. Sixty long millennia ago, a mining platform owned and operated by Clan Saotome of the Amerai force-landed on the at-the-time nameless world.

The planet in question is one Earther humans would find most pleasant. It's gravity is a touch lighter than Earth's (about 0.998 gravities) and it is, relatively speaking, a touch closer to it's sun. The planet is in the approximate conditions Earth was at the beginning of the reign of the dinosaurs – it only has one gargantuan continent almost the size of every landmass on Earth put together, and the remainder of its surface is ocean, studded with intermittent volcanic archipelagos.

Roughly in the centre of that titanic continent is a split that will one day open to become an ocean; at the moment, it is around a hundred kilometres across at it's widest point. It is a shallow and warm sea, squarely in the planet's tropical belt; along its northern perimeter lies an ancient range of extinct volcanoes, at its southern edge a range of very active volcanoes courtesy of the plate tectonics that are opening that gulf by about three inches a year. Like the whole of that planet, these ranges have never seen glaciation; no place on Dachaigh Nuadh has ever been cold enough for snow, not even at the planet's poles.

The platform hit the water approximately ten kilometres from the beach, and ploughed thirty kilometres up the side of a nearby mountain, leaving a yawning canyon which would forever afterwards be known as An Sleamhnaich – roughly, The Skid – eventually giving it's name to the city that would someday grow in that place.

When the survivors crawled from the wreckage, they found fate had chosen them the perfect place to crash. True, they were marooned with no route of escape and no form of offworld communications – but they were marooned in paradise. During the day, the temperature frequently soared to around 45 to 50 degrees centigrade. Annual rainfall was close to fifty metres. Air humidity through the roof. The tropical rainforest around them was alive with plant life and small prey, as was the impossibly blue ocean that spread out before them; the sea was an oasis of weird and fearsome critters, but on land no animal bigger than a large dog had yet evolved.

And they had several million tons of scrap metal, refined ore, trashed starships, equipment, weaponry, and supplies, sitting in a pile of debris halfway up what some joker dubbed the Roadblock Mountain.

It took sixty standard years for the Clan to find them. By the time a Clan scoutship entered the system that would soon be known as Dana's Fire, the six and a half thousand survivors had taken the words of a prophet who would be born approximately fifty-eight thousand years later to heart; they had gone forth and multiplied.

Eventually, Lord Akira decided to move the headquarters of Clan Saotome to Dachaigh Nuadh; over the many millennia since, most of the administration of Clanspace and the Clans has moved itself to one of the few words that the Amerai can truly call their own.

Today, the city of An Sleamhnaich, population one point six billion, is the hub of the Clanspace Alliance. From the city centre in the ancient scar the mining platform left in the land to the suburbs that sprawl nearly two thousand kilometres, it is a shapeshifter's paradise. A city built in and around a thriving rain forest by people who place great value in their elbow room, on a planet with a plentiful supply of space, it has never been forced to pile up on top of itself the way the cities of Earth do; there are no neighbouring cities on Dachaigh Nuadh, no native creature bigger than a sheep, and even though sixty thousand years have passed since the mining platform crashed, there are still places on that planet which have never been seen by a sentient's eyes.

The homes of An Sleamhnaich are usually sprawling single-storey buildings proportioned so a battle-form werewolf can comfortably stand upright in them; as your typical battle-form werewolf could look S'tarak'hai R'hara'tath straight in the eye, fifteen foot ceilings and twelve foot doors are the norm. The buildings themselves have to be made for a city where a cold day is hot enough that you can very literally fry an egg on a tin roof, and during the rainy season over a metre of rain can fall in one day. The streets have never known wheeled vehicles; they're wide and leafy, lined by the local broadleaf trees, which serve to shelter the people of the city from the heat.

Even still, An Sleamhnaich only really comes awake as the sun goes down. The bone-blasting heat of the day drives most people inside, under cover, asleep, away from the relentless battering of the scorching hot and clean-burning sun. Dachaigh Nuadh's rotation is somewhat slower than that of the Earth, making one full turn every thirty-seven hours; as the long day gives way to a long and nearly as hot night, people begin to awaken. Aircars take to the skies; lupine figures emerge from their homes, to work and play beneath the moonless tropical skies. Even at night, the heat is relentless; when the clouds roll in from the ocean and the heavens open, titanic impromptu street parties erupt as the city puts work aside for the moment to run and play and sing and laugh as the wall of water descends, putting several feet of water on the ground and, for just a few short hours, turning An Sleamhnaich into a sort of temporary Vienna.

It is a city balanced precisely between fire and flood, a primordial Eden that has, over the millennia, evolved to co-exist with the bipedal invaders from the sky who have stamped their mark on half a continent yet, through careful management and good fortune, helped and allowed the verdant land around them to coexist with them.

Yet even here in paradise, the shadow of war still hangs over the land; for the Amerai were created for destruction, and within their chests beat the hearts of warriors. They are the net result of a long-ago bioweapons program, and each bears that ancient war machine deep in their soul. Whether the Amerai can ever truly know peace is a question best left to the philosophers; that beast of battle and it's thirst for death is all too easily awoken, and the long history of the Amerai is one stained by the endless blood-drenched fires of war. Their enemies are many; their friends are few. They are natural born killers, armed to the teeth with a small arsenal of living weaponry – muscles like mech actuators, fangs like daggers, claws capable of shearing through armour plate like a hot knife through butter, reflexes like a whiplash, and skin as tough as the proverbial old boot. Theirs is a society where violence is neither condoned nor condemned; it is simply accepted in the same way that a Scotsman accepts the eternal truth of rain. It is simply a fact of life; for a people very literally born to kill, strife is never far away.

And that was why, as Hermione stepped off the Blink Dog's cargo ramp and into the wall of heat and humidity among the long shadows of evening, the first thing she saw was a gargantuan triple-turreted tank, looming over the starport. At first she thought it was only a couple hundred feet away, and then she noticed the low-laying terminal buildings between her and it, and the perspective clicked.

The tank was nearly half a mile away, and so massive that the Blink Dog would have been able to land on the rear deck of any one of it's turrets. It's trio of main guns were so big you would have been able to drive a car down the bore, and not a small car either – in fact, as far as she could tell, a Challenger tank would have fitted down those titanic gun barrels with room to spare. Peering around, she realised the starport was ringed by a dozen of those incredible machines, and although each was silent and stationary, something told her they were gassed up and good to go, each ready to unleash Armageddon at a moment's notice.

"My God, what are those?" she asked, briefly forgetting her annoyance.

Harry looked where she was pointing, and snorted.

"They're Bolos." He said. "Mark XXXIII, I think; what a beautiful sight. Most powerful ground combat vehicles ever built. They're thirty-two thousand ton sentient tanks with the firepower of a cruiser-class starship; as you can probably guess, I want one." He glared at the nearest of the immense tanks. "Oh, and add those beauties to your mental checklist of things that could eat a Harry Johnson for lunch."

"They're why the only way to bust out of a Clanspace industrialised planet is hot-launching or subspace." Bruce remarked.

"Hot launching?" Hermione asked.

"Yeah, running your ship up past the light barrier before you've cleared the atmosphere." Bruce explained.

"… that sounds dangerous." Hermione said.

"It is." All three Blink Doggers chorused.

"Put it this way," Harry said, "There's no better way to void the warranty on your shield generators and fuck the tolerances of your entire drivetrain while you're at it. Right, I'm gonna go through customs and hire a hoverbus. You lot might as well make a start on patching our little mementos of Azeroth Prime; I'll be back in about half an hour. C'mon, Hermione."

And the two of them trooped away across the scorching concrete, heading for the nearest of the low-laying buildings with her glaring at his back.

--

"Name?"

"Darth Venger of the Ancient and Holy Order of the Sith, with retainer." Harry stated.

The poor customs girl looked suitably nonplussed. "Uh, nationality?"

"Thousand Kingdoms of Kendarat."

"Your passport, please sir?" The poor girl sounded a bit like how Hermione imagined Oliver Twist asking for more would have sounded if he'd had a rough idea of what the reaction would be like but had to do it anyway.

Harry handed his passport over; the girl swiped it over what looked like a barcode reader, then placed it on the countertop.

"That's all in order, sir. Purpose of visit?" she asked.

"Business."

"Profession?"

"Mercenary." Harry said. The girl looked like she was telling herself she ought to have figured that much.

"Anything to declare?"

"Yes. I have three refugees from Azeroth Prime, who're due to be dropped off at the An Sleamhnaich address of Dr Washu Hakubi. I am also legally required to inform you that I have subspace doors in my possession."

The customs girl looked surprised, and fiddled with her computer.

"You'll need diplomatic clearance to bring the subspace doors on-planet, sir."

Harry nodded, selected one of the varied cards in his wallet, and handed it over. The girl slotted it into another machine, waited, smiled, and handed it back.

"Nature of retainer?" she asked.

"Personal assistant, codename Omega Five." Harry replied, and the girl went as white as a sheet.

"Uh, did I hear that correctly, sir?" she asked.

"Personal assistant, codename Omega Five." Harry repeated. The poor girl stared at him for a few seconds, fiddled with her computer, then nodded, looking completely freaked out.

"That's all in order, sir." She stamped his passport, and handed it back. "Welcome to An Sleamhnaich, sir. Enjoy your stay."

Harry was silent until they were out of earshot of the customs desks, then cracked up laughing.

"Poor bloody kid." He eventually said. "Heh, can't be every day that a Sith Knight walks up to customs with an Omega weapon in tow."

"You actually told her what I am?" Hermione snapped.

Harry nodded. "Of course. It'd lead to all sorts of shit if I hadn't; a while back I was involved in some wet-work hereabout. Let's just say there was shit getting chucked all over Clanspace, I was hired to sort things out, and that involved arranging an encounter between a Clanlord's skull and an explosive bullet. Put it this way, if they know you're capable of drilling a Clanlord and getting away with it, the ones you didn't kill tend to be a bit nervous about you."

"So what?"

"So I walk onto their planet with the fifth most powerful weapon in the galaxy, they're going to be a bit jumpy." Harry said with a flippant shrug. "And if I'd done it without telling them, they'd assume said weapon to be aimed right at the heart of some random Clanlord, and each of 'em would probably assume that Clanlord is them. Instant mess, just add bullets."

"They're that paranoid?" Hermione asked.

"Girl, they're the collective leaders of a galactic superpower. When you're running a show on _that_ scale, it's not _paranoia_ because you really _do_ have people out to get you."

--

"Ouch." Tara said. She, Bruce, Ben and S'tarak'hai were now stood on the top of the Blink Dog's hull, just inboard of where the railgun burst had hit the ship, all of them wearing magboots.

There was a line of massive dents with ragged holes in the centres stretching from just above A-deck cabin 18's windows to just outboard of one of the ship's tailfins

"Did a bloody number there all right." Bruce agreed, slouching down the side (and ignoring the way his feet were at an angle where they shouldn't stay on) to have a closer look.

"It looks to be approximately hundred calibre." S'tarak'hai mused. "We are fortunate indeed the shields lasted as long as they did – if you trace the trajectory of the burst, it lines up with Number Four turbine."

"Yeah, looks like he was going for an engine hit all right." Ben agreed, squatting down and sighing along the line of bullet holes.

"This isn't a bloody crime scene investigation." Bruce grumbled, hefting his nanospanner. "Let's get this bloody mess stripped away."

--

The bolts they use to hold a ship's armour plating together and to her hull aren't entirely conventional; there's always a chance a conventional bolt would vibrate itself loose, which would be an incredibly bad idea on a re-entry hull, but they have to be able to be removed to enable fitment of replacement armour panels following incidents like what had happened to the Blink Dog. So they insert much like a conventional bolt, then lock down to hull and armour panel using nanowelds – but unlike a normal nanoweld, the nanites involved go dormant rather than dying. Inserting a nanospanner with the correct code key (usually the same as the ship's helm key) recharges and reactivates the nanites, causing them to unfasten their welds and retreat into the bolt.

That was why, although the damaged armour plates were (technically speaking) securely spot-welded into place, Bruce was able to slot his nanospanner (a device that looks a bit like a large electric drill with a funky overgrown screwdriver bit) into each bolt, squeeze the trigger, and the metre-long ten-centimetre-thick bolt quite happily came out.

There were the best part of two hundred bolts to extract; three armour panels had been blown to hell by the burst, eighteen thousand New Aussie dollars of combat-grade duranium-ferroceramic-plasteel laminate converted into so much junk just like that. That was why Tara had roped Ben and S'tarak'hai into helping; with just her and Bruce, it would have taken all day just to remove the damaged panels, and never mind fitting the fresh ones when they got hold of them. Besides, having a Special Forces cyborg Kenti around negated the need for hiring a crane; each panel weighed six tons.

By this time, Alice, Michelle and Carla were trooping around the boneyards searching for replacement panels; Bruce expected they'd have to buy replacements, but if they didn't, hey, that would be great.

And so it was that, just as Harry and Hermione were drawing up at the ship in the freshly-hired hoverbus, the first damaged panel hit the tarmac with a tremendous ringing BLANGanganganganganganganggggg where S'tarak'hai had just flung it clear of the wing.

"Bloody hell." Bruce said, seeing the condition of that inner hull section. The holes had great gouts of nanosealant from him and Tara's emergency repair efforts on the engine room, chunks of twisted silver goo like the clotted blood of some gigantic injured animal. In a way, that was exactly what they were; the scabs of an injured starship, laid down by crew acting like immune cells in their fight to save the wounded vessel.

Bruce Walker wasn't a particularly spiritual man (especially since going to the Collegium – it's hard to have much respect for the gods when you've seen Urthr Wodensdotter staggering around blind drunk and singing the Hedgehog Song) but it takes a jaded spacer indeed to not believe that his ship has a soul, and a strange kind of ponderous life; especially when she's a ship as old and travelstained as the Blink Dog. Bruce had been known to talk to the Blink Dog from time to time, and he could never shake the odd feeling that the old ship was, somehow, listening as he begged and cajoled, praised her and swore at her, and yelled in triumph for her. She'd been with him and his family through thick and thin; they'd been a hell of a long way together, he and that battered old hot-rod.

The LSS-17332 was more than just a ramshackle blockade runner to Bruce. She was even more than his home and livelihood too; she was his oldest and most faithful friend, and it nearly broke his heart to see those rents like oozing sores in her ancient hide.

"How's it looking?" Harry asked, coming ambling along the hull.

"It's a bloody mess, that's what it is mate." Bruce said, indicating the line of ragged holes. "Eighteen bloody grand of armour down the tubes, and never mind the repairs to her poor bloody inner hull and replacing her poor bloody warp coil."

Harry crouched down and had a closer look at the damage.

"Boy. Around sixty millimetre calibre, I think; it's a bloody good thing there was nobody in that section."

"You ain't wrong." Tara muttered. Like Bruce, it pained her to see the Dog with her skin blown open; she too had a lot of love for that old starship.

"Well, we're still kicking and there's life in the old girl yet." Harry said, giving the undamaged armour plate he was squatting on an affectionate slap. "I'm gonna go drop our passengers off, then I'll go see what I can root up in the way of replacements."

"Think I'll come-with." Ben stated, straightening up. "While since I've seen Washu, and there's something I wanna have a word with her about."

Harry nodded. "Right. Hey Bruce, want Kitten to muck in here? If you like, I could root up a couple of my other girls."

"That'd be good mate." Bruce said, then set his nanospanner down, propping it against the top edge of the armour panel below the one they'd just got done removing. "As for me, I'm gonna have me a cuppa, I'm jittery as hell, won't be any bloody good to the poor old girl like this. Anyone else?"

S'tarak'hai nodded and grunted; Tara sighed. "Yeah, coffee sounds good right now."

Harry gave Bruce a thumbs-up. "OK, be right back."

And with that he jumped off the side of the ship nearly giving Bruce and Tara heart attacks, landed easily on the tarmac way below, and sauntered over to the cargo ramp.

"Crikey me nerves…" Bruce muttered.

"He's crazy." Tara remarked. "Tough as a sack of spanners, but crazy."

"A bloke's allowed to show off. Geronimo!" Ben said, and followed Harry down, doing a couple of backflips in the air.

"… these bloody Force adepts are jerks." Bruce stated.

S'tarak'hai chuckled and didn't say a word.

--

"What a bloody week." Bruce remarked, feeling the caffeine spreading through his tired body. He was getting close to running on vapour – he reckoned another six hours tops before he was too fried to do much of anything, and it was his hope that they'd at least have the damaged panels stripped away by then. He probably wouldn't sleep very well with the Dog's hull blown open, but there comes a point in the life of a blockade runner captain when sleep ceases to be a luxury and becomes a necessity.

"So, any word from Alice?" Tara asked.

Bruce shrugged and glanced at the kid they'd retrieved from the Orc gang car, who'd been minding the comms. She realised she was being looked at, jumped, and started paying attention rather than devoting it to the food Tara had given her when they had put the coffee on.

"Any word from Alice?" Bruce asked her.

The kid nodded. "She sez they found one panel so far." She squeaked.

"Well, one down, two to go." Bruce said with a nod, then sighed. "Man… what a bloody week."

Right about then, Harry came trooping back out the subspace door followed closely by a pair of completely identical blondes.

Both were catgirls, both were extremely attractive, both had heavy handguns strapped to their hips, both had bright metal collars with runic markings Hermione found very familiar around their throats, and both were dressed in minimal black leather things, the only difference in their outfits being which side the small spiky black shoulder pad was on. They came to a halt each side of Harry, their eyes darting around the room.

They couldn't possibly be Kenti; their cat-like features ran to ears and a certain level of sensual slightly feline grace. They looked faintly Asian, aside from their big blue eyes, fair skin, and blonde hair, and they were wearing identical pixie-like smiles that bore a certain aggressive sexual challenge.

Just to look at them, you could tell that these two were trouble with an upper-case T.

"Guys, this is Anna Puma," Harry said, resting his left hand on the spikeless shoulder of the catgirl with the pad on the right, "And this is Uni Puma," and he rested his right hand on the spikeless shoulder of the catgirl with the pad on the left. "They are, collectively, the Puma twins." He moved his hands; he started rubbing Anna's back with his left, and scratching behind Uni's ear with his right. Both girls relaxed against his hands, their smiles becoming softer and a whole lot less troublesome as they relaxed into the caress.

"Aw, man." Anna murmured, a purr trying to break loose in her voice. "You're puttin' me to sleep here, boss."

Harry laughed and returned his hands to their shoulders; the two leant against his sides.

"I guess you could call 'em my lieutenants." Harry continued. "Girls, the big Kenti's my main man, S'tarak'hai R'hara'tath. He's First Legion and could squish you like bugs, so at least try to pretend to respect him. The ginger goit's Bruce Walker, who co-owns this ol' bucket of bolts with his sister, who ain't here. The girl with the fur who's now glaring at me would be Tara, she's Bruce's navigator and surrogate big sister. And you of course known who Hermione and Kitten are."

"Oh yeah." Uni appreciatively remarked, eyeing Hermione up.

"What's the story?" Anna asked.

"Well, I got this ol' ship into a bit of a scrape and now she's got a load of bloody great holes in her hull." Harry said with a shrug.

"So of course you call in your favourite tech-savvy sex kittens." Uni surmised with a nod and a bat of her eyelids.

"Bingo." Harry said with a grin.

Ben stuck his head in the door. "Harry mate, there's a bloke from the Clanguard down below looking for Darth Venger. Oh, gudday trouble, gudday other trouble, long time no see." He was promptly mobbed by a certain duo; one wouldn't think two shapely blondes could do a whole lot of mobbing, but when they're scantily-clad catgirls who think the target of their mobbing is hot, the usual equations go out the window.

"Huh, wonder what he wants." Harry remarked, and slouched off towards the hold; the whole crew followed him chiefly because they wanted to see what was going on, Ben with Anna and Uni hanging all over him.

"I thought you said your catgirls were lesbian?" Hermione asked.

Harry nodded sagely. "They are, but every rule has it's exceptions, and let's just say the Puma twins epitomise pansexuality. Oh, and they think Force adepts are by definition hot. Besides, they've got history with Ben – we retreived 'em from a Hutt slave pit back when we were travelling together, just after I finished my apprenticeship as a Sith, in fact. For whatever reason it's me they latched onto as their master, dunno why but I think the fact the girl who originally owned 'em was a Sith might have something to do with it. It's a bloody shame Lord Lentless didn't survive the Jedi Civil War; that chick had her head screwed on right and no mistake. Plus she'd got bloody good taste; just take a look at what she got tanked up as her personal assistants."

"Um." Hermione said.

"Pretty much." Harry agreed. "There are few servants more loyal than those taken from a life of deprivation and treated with kindness, and those two are a case in point. I've had them a long time, and they've repaid what they owed me about twenty times over; hell, those two have saved my life a good few times. I guess the big difference between me and the fucks who owned them after Lentless is that, shit, I've got a soft spot for catgirls. They're cute, and all they ask for is kindness; if you're good to 'em, they'll never allow themselves to let you down." He paused and frowned pensively. "Besides, there are seven people I trust to cover my back in house-to-house; Ben, catboy, Lord Vader, Morpheus, Setsuna, and the Puma twins."

"Why aren't I on that list?" Hermione complained.

Harry rested a hand on her shoulder.

"Because I've never seen you in a firefight." He said. "It's like this. I've got something wrong with some of my glands, they produce too much noradrenaline. That's why I stay steady when the shit hits the fan, but go to bits when it's all over." He sighed and shook his head. "I've seen people who panic under fire. They don't shake afterwards; mostly they lie very, very still. I don't know if you'd keep your head when it's raining bullets, and to be quite frank, I hope I'll never have to find out."

"Amen to _that_." Hermione muttered, failing in her attempt to disagree with him.

At that moment, they exited the portside staircase and began walking towards the cargo ramp.

**--End Chapter--**

AN –

This chapter slightly edited for FF.N; replaced a single 72-point **WHAM!** with an actual sentence when the Blink Dog touched down.

Shepard's Prayer is, 'Lord don't let me fuck up'. It was muttered by Allan Shepard just before blast-off on the way to the moon.

Twenty thousand kilometres is nearly twice the diameter of the Earth; this is intentional, as re-entering usually involves going right round the planet in question at least once.

Doghead Out.


	6. Chapter 6

This ain't no self-insert fic

**This ain't no self-insert fic.**

**This ain't no slash fic neither.**

**This is Top Dog.**

--

_I'm a witness to the moon and the stars above_

_I'm aware of the crimson sky_

_I'm a witness to the crumbling walls as well_

_But I'm not your alibi_

--

There was a tall and fairly handsome man with greying hair standing a respectful distance from the ramp. His stance made it fairly obvious he was a fighter, as did the crisp military-style uniform he was wearing; there was a hoverjeep parked nearby, with a worried-looking man in combat fatigues at the control yokes.

"Darth Venger?" the man asked as they arrived at the foot of the ramp.

Harry nodded. "That's me."

"Enforcer Remus Jal Lupin, Saotome Clanguard." The man said, extending a hand. "Lord Akira sends his regards, and requests that I accompany you during your business in An Sleamhnaich."

"Any particular reason?" Harry asked, raising an eyebrow as he accepted the handshake.

"Yes." Lupin said, nodding at Hermione. "Her."

"Ah." Harry said.

"So what's that mean?" Hermione complained.

"Earther, right?" Lupin asked her. She nodded. "Well, how would you react if you were running a country and someone you and your people owe a debt of gratitude came through customs with a very large nuclear bomb?"

Harry chuckled. "You still haven't got it, have you Granger? What a fully-armed nuclear missile submarine is to Earther politics, you are to galactic politics. Heh, being a one-man nuclear state rocks." He turned back to Lupin. "I guess that means you'll be our spy for the day."

"Something like that, yeah." the man admitted with a what-can-you-do grin and shrug.

"Well mate, you might as well come on up." Bruce said. "I'm gonna get back to patching the old girl back together."

"Right behind you, Chief." Tara chirped. S'tarak'hai chuckled and clicked his shoulders, Kitten perked up, and the Puma twins exchanged a final hug and smooch with Ben then followed the quartet towards the upper deck and the airlock that'd allow them to scramble onto the roof.

"Well," Harry said. "Guess we might as well get our passengers loaded into that bus, get 'em to Washu's place, and then I can figure out some replacement armour panels for this old girl." He gave the nearest crossbrace an affectionate slap. "Time's a wasting, people. Let's roll 'em."

--

**Disclaimer: Never bawl out a Sith Lord.**

--

**Top Dog: Enter the Fnords**

**Intermission 1: Harry Johnson and the Lunatic Scientist**

**A Doghead13 / United Galaxies fanfic**

**Written & produced by Calum J 'Doghead13' Wallace**

**Preread by KuroNeko**

**Hosted by Studio Asynjor**

**Brought to you by Hairy Scottish Git Productions, GMBH**

**This is not a drill.**

--

**Chapter 6: Resolution in transition.**

**(In which our hero completes his task)**

It didn't take them long to get the Morgans into the hoverbus, under the faintly bemused eye of Enforcer Lupin. Then they drove down off the spaceport, Ben having gone through customs in the interim, and into town. The last twilight faded as they drove, replaced by the bright lights of a thriving city; Hermione watched, fascinated, as the streets slipped by below.

After about an hour's drive, they touched down at what seemed to be an unassuming house for this city. Back on Earth, it would have been considered a mansion; it covered a couple thousand square metres of ground, a great sprawling vaguely-Grecian flat-roofed thing one story tall with an impressive temple-like pillared foyer and several hovercars parked around the courtyard; Harry set the hoverbus down, climbed out, and went and banged on the impressive front door of the house, which very promptly popped open to reveal a pint-sized redhead who couldn't be older than fourteen.

"You took your time." She said. She was about five nothing tall with spiky blood-red hair and a cocky smirk, and she was dressed in denim jeans, trainers, a heavily-laden tool belt, and a black T-shirt marked 'I am a Genius, what's your excuse?'

"Had a bit of trouble with an exploding warp coil on the way out the Cluster." Harry said with a shrug. "The Alliance were their usual trigger-happy selves."

"Fair enough. I assume you've got them?"

Harry nodded. "Three Morgans, alive and intact."

"Good." The girl sauntered over to the hoverbus, critically examined the two girls who were laying on gurneys in the back, then nodded. "That's all in order. I had my doubts when Shatteraxe suggested you; my doubts were incorrect."

A set of holographic keyboards appeared under her hands; a few touches and the gurneys silently levitated out of the bus.

"You'd better come in." said Dr Washu Hakubi, the highly unlikely-looking greatest scientific genius in the universe. "I'm working with an old associate of yours on this, and he wants a word with you."

The whole crew trooped into the house. The foyer was pretty much unfurnished; at the back beside the open archway that led into the rest of the house stood a cheerful red door, which opened with an equally cheerful 'Ping!' as Washu approached, and the whole crew poured through.

Harry cocked his head when he saw who was standing in the middle of the lab foyer; a massive black-clad man with a helmet reminiscent of a Second World War German 'coal scuttle' helmet crossed with a metallic gas mask. The hiss and click of a powered rebreather echoed through the room, and red status monitors pulsed on his chestplate. Everyone in the group immediately knew who this was; he was unmistakable.

"Lord Vader. This is a surprise." Harry said.

The man turned the blank glower of his helmet to face Harry.

"Lord Venger." He said. His voice was as deep as his bulk would seem to indicate, and slightly muffled by the mask. "You have the girl? Excellent."

Hermione glanced at Harry and was surprised to see a look of shock on the weredragon's face.

"May I ask you something, Lord Vader?" Dr Morgan asked.

"Ask away." The hulking Sith Lord said.

"What is your intent for my daughter?" Dr Morgan asked.

Darth Vader contemplated him for a moment.

"Some years ago, I made a serious error, which threatens all of my plans." He said, sounding analytical. "With the most excellent assistance of Doctor Hakubi, I intend to rectify that error. Do not fear for Elaine's continued health; the work I and Doctor Hakubi have spent the last few months preparing for is also intended to enable her to continue to exist upon this layer of reality without the danger of an explosive Genocyber transformation."

"So what's the plan?" Harry asked. The look of shock had faded, replaced by a decidedly un-Harrylike elated grin.

"Patience, my friend." Vader rumbled, earning himself another startled look from Harry. "All will become clear in time." He turned to Hermione. "You have yourself something quite fascinating here, Lord Venger, and I believe I may be able to give you a few small pointers to aid her continuing development."

"Oh?" Harry asked, once again cocking his head and the smile creeping back onto his face.

"Indeed. Tell me, Miss Granger; have you ever heard of the technique that we call overbombing?"

Hermione mutely shook her head. Vader nodded.

"I thought not." he said, "It is possible for a magic user such as yourself to throw everything she has into a casting. The act is not without it's dangers; if you do so, you will be exhausted and knocked unconscious for a few hours. But with an aura as remarkable as the one you have been gifted with and using that technique, I believe the usage of magics that have so far been merely theoretical may at last be possible." He chuckled darkly to himself. "I would offer to purchase you for my own use, but to do so would be pointless; the transaction would cost more blood than I have in this body."

He turned his attention back to the group as a whole, ignoring how much he'd just pissed Hermione off.

"Doctor, if you would bring the young ladies? There is much to be done."

"What do you mean, purchase me?" Hermione spluttered.

"Granger?" Harry amusedly remarked. "Don't yell at a Sith Lord, it could prove bad for your structural integrity."

Vader chuckled again.

"She is one of your followers, Lord Venger." He said. "I leave the discipline of another Sith's followers to their master, in the understanding that he will return that professional courtesy. Now, this will take some time; I would appreciate if you and your people were to leave myself and Doctor Hakubi to our work. Likewise, I would appreciate it if you were to return here in one year's time as we will have something quite remarkable to show you; things of this magnitude are not done in an instant, and before we may proceed, Elaine Morgan must learn to coexist with the elemental that is bonded to her soul."

Vader turned and swept into the inner laboratory in a way that reminded the various Hogwarts students in the group of Snape.

"Coexist?" Professor Morgan boggled.

"Of course." Washu said. "Not many people know this, but I'm a Genocyber myself; I found out when I was twelve, the original reason I took up the study of Science was because I had no desire to unexpectedly blow up." She casually materialised a set of holographic keyboards and started idly typing; the gurneys bearing Elaine and Diana lifted silently from the floor and drifted into the inner lab. "Professor, if you would accompany me? We've got a lot to do, and I'd like to know a few little details of your biofeedback experiments; that was some excellent work, if in sore need of a little refinement."

"Job's done, people." Harry said. "Let's get out of here."

"I'll catch you back at the ship later." Ben said. "I need a word with Washu."

Harry nodded, and left with Hermione and Lupin in tow.

--

"Well, I wasn't expecting _that_." Lupin said as they climbed back into the bus; he seemed a bit shook up.

"Hang on." Harry said. He sounded a bit weird; he slammed the driver's door, glanced around to make sure Hermione and Lupin were seated and belted in, then turned the ignition keys.

"A Dark Lord…" Lupin said. "Are you sure about leaving a Genocyber with _him_?"

"WAAAAAAAAAAAAHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" Harry howled, punching a fist in the air. "I'VE DONE IT!"

"… I beg your pardon?" Lupin blankly asked.

Harry let out a howl of laughter; the back of his head contacted the headrest with a muffled clunk. "I'm right Lord Vader called me Lord Venger?" he chortled.

"Yeah, so?" Hermione snapped.

"So that means my training is complete." Harry told her, and pulled back on the coaxial stick, sending the bus leaping into the air.

"… wasn't it complete when you became a Sith Knight?" Lupin asked, still sounding decidedly blank.

"Far from it." Harry replied. "Just like with Jedi, there's three ranks of Sith. The first rank are Padawans, students of the Dark Side, who travel with and train under a Sith Lord. The second rank is a Sith Knight, a Sith capable enough to hold their own but not yet fit to train another generation of Sith, and they're still nominally under the supervision of the Sith Lord who trained them. The third and highest rank is a Sith Lord, also known as a Dark Lord of the Sith, equal in every way to a Jedi Master. A Sith's training isn't over until the Dark Lord of the Sith who trained 'em says it's over."

"I must admit you've lost me." Lupin said.

Harry glanced at him in the rear-view mirror, unable to keep the grin off his face. "Do you actually know where the term 'Dark Lord' comes from?" he asked.

Lupin thought about that for a long moment.

"Well, no."

"It's from the Old Atlantean 'Rath val Serivalus', usually translated as 'Lord of Darkness', but a more accurate translation would be 'Lord of Shadows'." Harry explained. "A Sith Knight earns the title when they successfully master the Dark Side."

"… so, how's that work?" Hermione asked, once again distracted from being angry.

"Simple, really. I told you about what we call a Sith's Shadow." He glanced at Lupin in the rear-view mirror. "For your benefit, it's essentially a rampaging id complex." A wide and deeply satisfied grin spread across his face. "All Sith have something they hunger for. In my case, revenge on anyone who's ever crossed me or mine. In Lord Vader's case, conquest. That's where we get our Sith names; you following me here?"

"So far." Lupin told him.

Harry nodded. "Right. To become a Sith requires an inner darkness; there is a fire burning in my mind, and I can either master that flame, or it will consume me. The difference between a Sith Knight, which is what I was up until today, and a Dark Lord of the Sith, which I became when Lord Vader called me Lord Venger, is that I have mastered that fire. My inner darkness doesn't rule me; I rule my inner darkness. I am lord of my shadows; get the idea?"

Lupin blinked, faintly nonplussed.

"Well, it doesn't exactly take a degree in Latin to see where that comes from now I've got some background information." He admitted, getting a wry chuckle out of Harry. "Funny how pureblood-supremacist terrorist leaders use a near-identical term to describe themselves."

"It's not a coincidence." Harry told him with a casual shrug. "Mordred, the guy who started Earth's long-running tradition of self-styled Dark Lords, actually had the right to use the title; he was also known as Dark Lord Atre of the Sith." He glared at the spare air traffic like it had personally dishonoured him. "The thing most people don't realise is that Mordred had a very good point; at the time, for a mundane-born Earther mage to receive training meant they could never have contact with their family again or their own power would become a very literal death sentence. He was operating during the early days of the Inquisition. I don't agree with his methods, but his goals were, simply put, prevention of an offworld invasion of Earth by strict segregation of Earth's supernatural and mundane societies."

"That makes a scary sort of sense." Lupin said.

"Don't it just?" Harry agreed. "Of course, the problem was that there are a lot of stupid people in this galaxy. Take all the tensions between magi and Amerai, between Amerai and Kenti, between Earth's assorted non-humanic sentients, and the grand old sentient tradition of deciding you're better than anyone who happens to have a different skin colour and then making the equally ludicrous leap of reasoning to decide this means you have to kill anyone who's outsides aren't the same colour as yours, or whatever, and viola. All of a sudden you have all these fuckwits running around trying to enslave and or exterminate anyone who doesn't fit their narrow definition of a real person. And so and so forth, and so ad infinitum. The next character of that particular rogues gallery was of course Herpo the Foul, who declared himself the Dark Lord Herpo without any idea where the title came from; I understand Lord Lentless found out, tracked him down, and put him out of everyone's misery, so one of his bumchums started recruiting and declared himself the Dark Lord Barbarus, and so on and so forth down the years, until you arrive at the current candidate – the self-styled Dark Lord Voldemort, who I guess I'm going to have the pleasure of disassembling. Anyway, let's go back to your question from earlier. I trust Lord Vader and I trust Washu; if they say whatever they've got planned won't involve that poor kid going boom, then whatever they've got planned doesn't involve that poor kid going boom." He shrugged. "And it's going to be interesting to see what Lord Vader's got planned; the guy's got a certain showmanship."

"I had no idea he was in Clanspace." Lupin remarked.

"It's all a part of his MO; he likes to keep people off balance." Harry stated with another shrug. "Besides, as a former conquering overlord the guy's got just a few enemies with old grudges, not letting people know where he is or where he's going next is good for his continued survival."

"How do you become a former conquering overlord without becoming incredibly dead?" Hermione queried.

"There's varied ways of pulling the trick off." Harry told her. "How Lord Vader did it is a long story. First off, he was born into slavery. A couple of itinerant wandering Jedi noticed his rather extreme Force potential, freed him, and started training him; problem being, he's a bad-tempered son-of-a-bitch at the best of times and this was back when the Jedi Order reckoned it their first order of business to instil a serious case of bipolar disorder in their trainees. They fucked his training up by not taking his personal strengths and weaknesses into account, someone wasted his mother, and he went off the handle. Instant Force psycho, just add pain. Fast forwards fifteen years, by which time he'd conquered half the Eastern Rim Alliance and a good chunk of what used to be Nalfer space, and someone – actually his son, though admittedly Luke didn't know it at that point – called him 'a slave to darkness' to his face. He didn't react very well, guy's got a bit of a chip on his shoulder about his personal liberty, but it got him thinking. Next thing you know, he joined the rebellion that'd been formed to fight him. He didn't let any of the rebels realise who 'Anakin' really was until he'd got done taking his own empire to bits, at which point he told Luke, 'Nothing and nobody makes a slave of Darth Vader,' and left; not long after that his former master, Lord Sidious, turned up and told him his training was complete. Since then he's been knocking round the galaxy looking for fights to involve himself in and scaring the crap out of anyone who so much as looks at him funny. He's a naturalised New Aussie citizen, spends a lot of time on the Cowabunga, that's how I met him; didn't take me and Ben long to work out I'm just not cut out to be a Jedi, so Ben asked Lord Vader what he reckoned, with the net result I ended up hanging out with the bogeyman for six years. Good times, good times." He sighed and shook his head. "It's a crying bloody shame the Alliance went to Hell in a handbasket after Luke's crew won; sometimes I reckon the only person who'd be able to keep that kind of mess under some semblance of control is a raging psychotic like Lord Vader, at least he kept the Alliance honest when he was busy being their worst fucking nightmare."

--

When Hermione arrived back in the Blink Dog's hangout, having bid Enforcer Remus Lupin farewell, she found the old ship's three-person crew sat round the ship's kitchen table counting the costs. She'd already taken a walk round the ship, noting the three rusty but serviceable-looking armour panels lying in massive cargo cradles beside the ship and the trio of shot-to-ratshit panels shoved to one side; a peer showed bright scars on the inner hull where there had been gaping holes.

"Gudday Hermione." Bruce said, then turned his attention back to his laptop. "Looks like we just broke even on that one, not taking the replacement warp coil into account."

"No you didn't." Harry remarked, and dumped the large coffin-shaped box he'd just wandered in with on the table. "You're up some."

Bruce stared blankly at it. It was large and composed of dull metal, with the Telthair Aerospace 'jump flash' logo stamped into the lid, then the following markings one side of that:

'TELTHAIR AEROSPACE – LITHIUM SEAL' in chunky block capitals, 'Ultimate Performance – Supersports Grade' under that, and at the bottom of the pile, 'AVR-2881 Block 20. IPCC 212 Angbands. For All Smallships of Size Class 50-65 Cubits. Made In An Sleamhnaich.'

Hermione recognised it instantly; it was the box containing a warp coil that Harry had showed her on the Hogwarts Express nearly a year ago.

"…!!" Bruce said, or at least he made an inarticulate noise that sounded something like that.

"Is that what…?" Alice squeaked.

"Shaaaiiii'gaaallll _taaaiiiiiiiiiii_…" Tara whispered.

"This isn't a free ride, Bruce." Harry said, patting the box full of components worth more than the annual GNP of Earth. "Here's the deal; the coil's yours as long as you need it, and you've got me on your crew whenever you need me. In return I've got you guys and your ship on retainer whenever I need you, at a rate of ten percent of profits plus costs." He gave the New Aussie a very serious expression. "It takes a lot to impress me, Bruce. You three impressed me with the way you handled yourselves back there. Your ship's an old banger, but with ten percent of the money I haul in, she won't be for long. You've got cool heads under pressure, you think of the little details like those disguised machine gun positions, and Alice flies like a demon. When I need backup in this business, I need people who know their shit. You three know your shit."

Bruce nodded, staring at the boxed warp coil like a starving man staring at a ten-course banquet. "Harry mate, we'd be bloody idiots to turn down something like that. Sis, Nav, what do you say?"

"I say not only yeah, but HELL YEAH!" Tara stated, sounding like she couldn't believe Bruce even needed to ask.

"Harry mate, is this thing a genuine Telthair Lithium Seal drive?" Alice boggled.

Harry grinned and slid the box down the table to her.

"Open it up and have a look." He said.

Alice lifted the lid off, acting like it was the Holy Grail in that box; Bruce and Tara crowded round, and all three's eyes went slightly glazed as they saw the tangle of components within.

"Crikey, lookit the size of the surge protectors!" Bruce gawked.

"I'm in love." Alice muttered.

"It's… it's a work of art…" Tara whispered.

Bruce caught his sister's eye; she nodded. He looked at Tara; she grinned and waggled her eyebrows.

He looked up at Harry, a wide grin on his face.

"You've got yourself a deal." He said. The two men solemnly shook on it, and then Tara let out a hoot like an overexcited chimp. She scooped a complex looking assembly of sheet metal – a jig for the necessary modifications to older patterns of drive bay mounting points – out of the box, and went galumphing off towards the engine room, cackling maniacally as she went.

"Better go make sure Nav doesn't get too overenthusiastic." Bruce said, scooped the user's manual out the box, and shambled off after Tara, the silly grin still plastered across his face.

Alice looked at the drive coil, then at Harry, then back at the coil.

"With this thing in our drive bay…" she said, and drifted off.

"Once everything's properly set up, this old ship will be doing 0-60 in 2.7 seconds, 0-100 in 5.9 seconds." Harry told her. "Top speed of 215.267 lights per hour, and it'll take her only 25 seconds to get there; that's well into the sort of territory where you only normally get drag racing sleds. This coil is worth as much as the in-space cost of a fully-armed combat-ready Crazy Fish-class frigate complete with attendant Angel Girl-class escort destroyer; this is the highest-quality hardware in the galaxy."

"With this thing in our drive bay, we will be _invincible_." Alice stated.

--

Talon Alpha First Class S'tarak'hai R'hara'tath contemplated his reflection for a long moment. He was currently several thousand light years from the Blink Dog, having taken a short-cut via Ben's subspace door; he'd walked through to the League embassy on Kendarat, and from there caught a taxi to Rialia Base, the central headquarters of Her Radiant Majesty's Armed Forces, to check in, and had received orders that left him slightly taken aback.

He was now clad in his dress uniform – tight black trousers, high boots polished until you could see your face in them, a long black coat with ornate epaulettes and bright metal buttons woven from hair-fine brass wire to form unit badges, a peaked officer's cap with a shiny brim, a drop-sided gunbelt with a traditional duelling pistol one side and his warblade – out of it's usual drab carbon fibre scabbard and into a high-polished hardwood one – the other, and of course the rack of medals and campaign ribbons on his chest.

Amongst that glittering row of honours lurked a medal in the shape of a stylised sunburst, formed from bronze from cannons used in the Battle of R'harash'gai't'rath, that bloody long-ago night that had led to the formation of Prathi R'harash'gai and thus the birth of modern Kenti society.

That medal was the Thousand Kingdoms highest award for valour above and beyond the call of duty in the face of the enemy – the Order of the Sun.

Fourteen years ago, that medal had been pinned on S'tarak'hai's chest by Queen Rialia the Twelfth herself, in recognition of the action that had made the R'hara'tath heir a military legend; the terrible day the young landwarrior, fresh out of basic training, faced a Clan Daarak Bolo in battle, survived as his talon were cut down around him – and avenged them when he found an anti-matter warhead from a city-buster and converted it into the most powerful land mine in known history. To this day, he had no idea how he'd got out alive; the bomb had left a glowing crater six kilometres across. He remembered nothing between the world going white as the improvised mine exploded, and waking up in the long-term care ward at R'harash'gai't'rath Royal Infirmary six weeks later; he'd been found with a cracked skull in a pile of rubble thirty kilometres from Ground Zero two days after the blast, and the only reason anyone could believe what he'd done was the timestamped recording on his cyberbrain's black box.

And that was why S'tarak'hai R'hara'tath could truthfully claim to be the only man to ever single-handedly destroy a Bolo Mark XXXII in combat and live to tell the tale. The feat had earned him a shot at the First Legion, and thus the stylised wings on his cap and the sword that hung by his side – but at what cost? Nine young sons and daughters of Kendarat who would never come home; nine voices silenced forever, nine faces S'tarak'hai would never see again, nine grieving mothers, nine good men and women lost, their bodies vaporised by an anti-matter blast, all that was left of them nine names on a titanic slab of duranium at the R'harash'gai't'rath War Memorial; nine names and faces and voices that would likely haunt S'tarak'hai's dreams for the rest of his life. He never told that tale; the cost had been too high.

He turned away from the mirror, the memories staining his face, and strode through the cavernous halls of the White Tower towards the most heavily protected piece of real estate in known space.

The nerve-centre of the Thousand Kingdoms of Kendarat was the command room six hundred floors below, protected by a kilometre of bedrock (not to mention the thousands of dedicated warriors who daily stood guard at the White Tower) but the place towards which S'tarak'hai was walking held the heart and soul of that galactic superpower.

After all, in that splendid chamber stood the throne of Prathi R'harash'gai; a man could almost feel the ages pressing down around his shoulders when he gazed upon that splendid and ancient ironwood seat.

The doors parted silently before him, and there he was. The vast audience chamber was almost deserted; only two people occupied a space big enough for ten thousand, but those two were the most important in the Thousand Kingdoms.

One was S'tarak'hai's father. High Alpha K'tarag'jal R'hara'tath was the head of Prathi R'hara'tath, the overall commander of Her Radiant Majesty's Armed Forces, and the personal bodyguard to the Queen. His deep brown fur might be greying and hoary with age, but the patriarch of the R'hara'taths was still strong and ready for battle; he stood beside the throne, his arms crossed and a thoughtful expression on his face, looking down at his son.

And the other was that very queen herself; Her Radiant Majesty Queen Rialia R'harash'gai XII, ruler by birth of every Kenti in the galaxy, and almost certainly the most politically powerful woman alive today; a woman who had the loyalty of some of the deadliest warriors in the galaxy. Over a trillion highly-trained fighting men and women stood ready to go to war at her word. Every slug in the A-DRK back in S'tarak'hai's equipment locker on Rialia Base was dedicated to the will of this woman; the words 'Property of Her Radiant Majesty. For government or police use only.' that were stamped into the grav rifle's foregrip were deadly serious.

She sat, fingers steepled, in that seat of power, her lovely green eyes contemplating the young warrior before her; the snow-white finery in which she was clad was offset startlingly by her nut-brown fur. She wasn't by any stretch of the imagination a young woman, and her face was creased by the strain of her responsibilities, but time was yet to diminish her beauty.

S'tarak'hai strode forwards to the foot of the steps that led up to the throne, and dropped to one knee, bowing his head, in a tradition older than the history of many sentient species. The stones beneath his feet were worn by more than eighty thousand years of glorious, blood-drenched, history; two thousand generations of warriors had walked that path and knelt in that spot before the women who held their allegiance.

In this place, the fate of a galaxy had been forged and honed.

"Talon Alpha First Class S'tarak'hai R'hara'tath, First Legion, reporting as commanded, Your Majesty." He said.

"So you found her." His father said.

"Affirmative, sir." S'tarak'hai confirmed. "She recognised me instantly, and we have spoken several times; it is unquestionably her."

"Is she well?" Queen Rialia asked.

"Yes, Your Majesty." S'tarak'hai said. The queen closed her eyes, and let out a heartfelt sigh of relief.

"Is she safe?" His father asked.

"I believe so, sir." S'tarak'hai said. "Lord Stormclaw has taken a liking to her."

"Elaborate." The queen commanded, and so he did.

"The dragon Lord Stormclaw is an odd one, Your Majesty." S'tarak'hai said. "I have known him for three years, and I do not fully understand him even now. But you surely know the way of dragons; I believe he regards her as a part of his hoard, and even by the standards of his kind, he is protective of those he regards as his people."

Queen Rialia nodded.

"You have Our gratitude, Talon Alpha." She said. "Your father has arranged for your Talon Team to accompany you when you return to the Collegium, and Third Task Force of the Silent Service is standing by in Tars Sahal'dat's cometary halo, along with significant elements of Second Legion. How go other events on Taragh?"

"It is as we feared, Your Majesty." S'tarak'hai said. "The terrorist known as Lord Voldemort is not as dead as we had hoped; I have seen his shade with my own eyes. I have logged all my cyberbrain and guncamera footage of the confrontation in question, and I was able to persuade Lord Stormclaw into giving us his footage of events."

There was a long silence.

"We see." The queen murmured. "What are your thoughts on dealing with this menace, Talon Alpha?"

"I believe it would be provident to support Lord Stormclaw in every way we can, Your Majesty. That one has enough rage in him that many Lords of the Pit would have pause for concern if he chose them as a target, coupled with unparalleled skill at arms. He is a deadly blade, a deadeye shot, and at full boost his reflexes are superior even to my own. And he is a good and honourable warrior; he is troubled, but when the cards are down he always – _always_ – does the right and honourable thing."

"Indeed." The queen said. "We believe We shall take your advice on this matter. K'tarag'jal – make it so."

"Yes, Your Majesty." S'tarak'hai's father said.

There were a few moments of silence, and then the queen spoke again.

"The man who killed Kami Asinara is assuredly the deadliest assassin in the galaxy." She said. "It is Our desire that this man's wrath should be aimed at the heart of the self-styled Lord Voldemort; We will make it more than worth his while. Talon Alpha, you have new orders. You will maintain your coverage of Tarai; at the same time, you will support Lord Stormclaw in any way you can, whatever the cost may be. The galaxy needs rid of Tom Marvolo Riddle, and it is Our will that he should die."

"I hear and obey, Your Majesty."

The queen rose to her feet, the courtly demeanour vanishing.

"Walk with me a while, S'tarak'hai." She said; he rose to his feet, and she padded softly towards a side door through which he had to duck to fit. He could tell the formal bit was over as soon as she dropped the royal We; she was for the moment the woman he knew as his godmother rather than the queen who held his fealty.

"When Tarai ran away, she was following a fine old family tradition." The queen remarked. "I… S'tarak'hai, my main concern is… is she happy?"

"I am unsure, Your Majesty." S'tarak'hai admitted. "But I believe so. She is at home aboard the LSS-17332 in a way she never was on Kendarat."

Queen Rialia smiled and shook her head.

"With the League…" she said. "It takes me back. Enough of that subject. S'tarak'hai, I desire to see Lord Stormclaw finally accept your father's offer of a bride from your family; I wish to see that young dragon accompanied by a First Legion landwarrior. He is skilled and deadly, but he cannot look everywhere at once. I believe your half-sister Aria would make a fine match for him; perhaps she could cover his back, and perhaps that way he could last long enough to see that menace Voldemort dead and gone."

S'tarak'hai considered that for a few moments.

"Perhaps." He said. "Am I right that you have another reason to suggest my little sister?"

"Indeed." The queen said. "I am aware she is less than happy in the First Legion; I like to pay attention to your father's family. You and your brothers and sisters are after all the finest warriors in the galaxy." She paused, then turned and handed him a slim dossier. "I am placing Detachment 481 under your command."

S'tarak'hai swiftly read through the folder's contents, then turned astonished eyes to his queen.

"Your Majesty, may I ask why such heavy firepower has been stationed at Hogwarts for so long?"

The queen nodded. "The strategic value of that Collegium is immense. The galaxy cannot afford that place falling into the wrong hands; my great-grandmother believed this too, and managed to have those assets stationed there in secret, chiefly aided by the then Headmaster of the Collegium, who was an agent for Department 44. It is their task to ensure that the Collegium remains accessible to the Thousand Kingdoms… or, failing that, to blast it into radioactive dust."

"I see." S'tarak'hai said.

"There is one other matter we must address today."

"Your Majesty?"

"Codename Omega Five." The queen said. "The Earther girl, Hermione Allison Granger. Is she a threat?"

"I do not believe so." S'tarak'hai finally said after several moments thought. The queen nodded.

"She must not be allowed to fall into the wrong hands, S'tarak'hai."

"I know, Your Majesty. Lord Stormclaw has her well in hand; he commands her absolute loyalty and obedience. In a very real sense, she is his personal property; he has already slaughtered at least one man for daring to harm her, and I do not believe Marcus Flint will be the last to learn the hard way that to harm Hermione Granger is to experience death. She has the mixed blessing of the love of a Sith; she will never be free of him, yet as long as he still has breath in his body he would move the mountains themselves to protect her."

"Love; the most powerful destructive force in the universe. It has toppled mighty nations and slain trillions, yet we all seek it. Such is the nature of sentience." Queen Rialia mused, quoting a Kenti proverb as old as the bones of the mountains. "So the dragon has chosen his maiden; a legend becomes a reality… trust Lord Stormclaw to fall for the fifth most powerful weapon in the known universe."

S'tarak'hai nodded.

"Perhaps it would be provident if you were to arrange for I and your father to meet her face-to-face." The queen said. "I wish to see with my own eyes this child who commands the power of an exploding star."

S'tarak'hai considered that for a long moment, then nodded.

"I will see what I can arrange." He promised.

**--End Chapter--**

AN –

I can't say I was really expecting to be posting multiple chapters at the same go, but then these things happen, especially when you're moving house.

Yes, that's the Remus Lupin you think it is.

Washu's capitalisation of 'Science' is not a mistake; there's boring old everyday science, and then there's Science, which is the sort studied by your itinerant evil genius, mad scientist, or deranged inventor. If someone's wearing brass goggles and/or frequently proclaims their genius, they're probably doing Science.

Tara's whisper of "Shaaaiiii'gaaallll _taaaiiiiiiiiiii_…" is a stretched 'Shai'gal tai', and literally translates as "Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuck _meeeeeeeeeeeee_…"

Concerning the markings on the box containing the warp coil, there is different wording in each version of the fic. The correct version has the text in question in suitable fonts with or without bold text as required, pretty much as I envisage it appearing on the box; the FF.N version has a description of said text. Constraints of the medium, don't ya know.

The measurements used in said markings are because Telthair's current Chairwoman of the Board is a bit of a measurements snob; she doesn't have much in the way of regard for this new-fangled League metric stuff or that Old Atlantean tosh, and therefore stubbornly insists that all Telthair products strictly use the ancient Amerai measurement system. Angbands are a direct analogue for watts, but have '1' quite a lot further up the scale; 200 angbands is close on twenty thousand watts. The Seletic cubit is a touch over two metres, and is thus (for you Imperial-measurement users) a bit over two yards; I'm too crap at converting from one to the other to give you an exact figure. The LSS-17332 Blink Dog, being a DX-series dropship, falls square into the middle of the size range for that coil. And it's no mistake that Harry had a high-power coil perfectly suited for a DX; in continuity it's Setsuna playing her little games again, and out-of-continuity I've been planning that sequence since the earliest unposted iteration of the fic.

Doghead Out.


	7. Chapter 7

This ain't no self-insert fic

**This ain't no self-insert fic.**

**This ain't no slash fic neither.**

**This is Top Dog.**

--

_This world's not my home, I'm a stranger to the storm_

_Save me, save me_

_Where the race is quickest, the tide runs strong_

_Save me, save me_

_A big sky above me, west winds blow_

_Sailing long distance_

_Breaking the foam_

_There's a lighthouse, shining in the black_

_A lighthouse, standing in the dark_

_All the world's a ship_

_Shipwrecked on the sea_

_Breaking up in pieces_

_We're clinging to the reef_

_There's a lighthouse_

--

Hermione was reading. For once, she wasn't getting stuck into something related to her education; the current object of her attention was the latest of Terry Pratchett's seemingly-infinite supply of Discworld novels.

Three weeks had passed since the trip to Azeroth Prime, and she'd split most of that time between her backlog of books she wanted to read and hanging out with her mates. She hadn't seen much of Harry; something had him worked up, but so far she hadn't got the chance to ask about it. Since his open moment when they were leaving Washu's place, he'd completely clammed up; he'd barely said two words to Hermione in three weeks, and in fact seemed to be going to great lengths to avoid her.

Much to her surprise considering how angry she'd been with him concerning his commentary following their discovery of the little girl in the boot of the Orc gang car he'd stolen on Azeroth Prime, Hermione found she was really missing his presence; without him, she felt oddly exposed, and she missed his cynical wit and the occasional glimpses into his messed-up psyche. In fact, much to her surprise she even missed his frequent lecherous behaviour and his habit of ordering her around. She wasn't really sure why, but he'd somehow became a fixture of her life, and his absence left an unsettling Harry-shaped hole in her world.

She'd just finished chapter 3 when S'tarak'hai came padding into the room, having to drop almost to all fours so as to fit through the door.

"Hermione." He rumbled.

"Hi, S'tarak'hai." She said, marking her place and putting the book down. The big catman looked unusually cheerful – he was normally a long tangled knot of surly tension, but right now he actually had a half-smile on his face. He squatted down and rested his elbows on the Granger's kitchen table.

Even kneeling, he was taller than Hermione's father.

"I am arranging a little get-together at my childhood home." He said. "I am inviting all CTMAers, and I would especially appreciate it if you were to attend; my father is eager to meet you for himself."

"Hey, sure." Hermione said. "When is it?"

"In sixteen hours time." S'tarak'hai told her. "It may be worth your while to accompany me to the Blink Dog; we will be touching down on my homeworld in a little over an hour, and there is a quite extraordinary sight to see on final approach."

Hermione nodded, a glint of interest in her eyes, and rose to her feet.

"Okay." She said. "Any idea where Harry is?"

"I believe he is sparring with Ben at Ben's dojo." The huge catman told her, ducking through the door.

--

A supply that will, sadly, soon run dry; Terry Pratchett was recently diagnosed with early-onset Alzheimer's. Before long, the world will become a less humorous place; a great loss is coming for civilisation as a whole and humanity as a species. Appreciate him while it still means anything to him.

--

**Disclaimer: Every year thousands of lives are saved by normal working-class guys much like you and I.**

**Heroes aren't born – they're made.**

--

**Top Dog: Enter the Fnords**

**Intermission 1: Harry Johnson and the Lunatic Scientist**

**A Doghead13 / United Galaxies fanfic**

**Written & produced by Calum J 'Doghead13' Wallace**

**Preread by KuroNeko**

**Hosted by Studio Asynjor**

**Brought to you by Hairy Scottish Git Productions, GMBH**

**This is not a drill.**

--

**Chapter 7: A long way to fall.**

**(In which another crew has a slight technical hitch, and our heroine meets a mountain.)**

The Chekhov rainbow dissipated as the Blink Dog dropped below the light barrier, and the hum of her warp drive faded away, replaced by a constant stream of multilingual comms chatter.

In the wheelhouse, Hermione was stood behind the pilot's seat, watching the vista that spread out before the old rat-rod. The planet that had come rushing out of the depths of space was a blue-green gem quite similar in appearance to Earth, but two moons hung in the sky, one visible merely as a thin crescent sliver of reddish light astern of the Dog, the other just rearing up over the horizon, a great yellow half-moon, with a bright silvery line of light just visible on the planet's rim between moon and viewer; Hermione guessed, correctly as it happens, that the silvery needle was in fact an orbital tower. Motes of light beyond count drifted every which what way, occasionally vanishing with a bright streaking flash, or arriving with a similar flash; a tiny bar of light hung near the orbital tower, and if Hermione's estimate of the range was right, it had to be an object at least sixty kilometres in length.

"K'rath'han STC, this is the LSS-17332 Blink Dog, requesting permission to approach. Over." Alice said into her mike.

"Blink Dog, we have you on the scope." A thickly-accented and laid-back-sounding female Kenti voice replied. "You are cleared for immediate approach, lane twelve. Over."

"Roger that, Control." Alice said. "See you soon. Over."

And she slid the Dog into the busy traffic patterns.

"Kendarat. The mother world." S'tarak'hai stated with obvious and very deep satisfaction. "What a beautiful sight."

"We'll be docking at K'rath'han orbital railroad in…" Alice glanced at her watch, then at the sensor screen. "One hour twenty minutes."

"You what?" Hermione asked. "Orbital railroad? How's that work?"

"That is relatively simple." S'tarak'hai told her. "K'rath'han – in your language, the Lone Mountain – is the tallest mountain on any inhabitable world within known space; its peak rises two hundred and three Earth kilometres from Kendarat's sea level."

"That's impossible." Hermione said. She paused for a moment and considered S'tarak'hai's amused look. "Well, I _thought_ it was impossible."

"Usually, yeah." Tara said. "But K'rath'han is actually an artificial construction; believe it or not, that mountain's a grave marker."

"Seriously?"

"Oh yes." Tara confirmed with a nod. "The first time K'rath'han was successfully climbed, they found an micrometeoroid-scarred statue at the peak, with an inlaid gold inscription at the base of it. Took until well after we'd had contact with people who remember Old Atlantean to translate it; it reads, 'Here lies God-Emperor Raul. Gaze upon his works, ye mighty, and despair'. Nobody knows who the heck he was any more; we think he was from after the Imperium collapsed from how old the mountain and statue are, but apart from that nobody except maybe Washu has any idea."

"Indeed." S'tarak'hai rumbled.

Alice lazily picked up the mike. "KRD-38622 Theria dar S'rath'naia, this is the LSS-17332 Blink Dog. You reading me? Over."

"I am receiving you loud and clear, Blink Dog. Over." A rumbling and thickly-accented Kenti voice replied.

"Looks like you're venting a bit of atmosphere from somewhere near your port sideworks, mate. You cobblers needing a hand there? Over."

"That is a negative, Blink Dog. We are aware of the leak and have the section sealed off; I believe we struck a micrometeoroid during early approach. My thanks for the heads-up. Over."

"No sweat mate, seeya around. Over."

"A good day to you. Over."

"Huh. That was some _crappy_ luck." Bruce remarked as Alice put the mike back on it's hook. "Bloody thing must have found one of the lip points in his navigational shields – he's bloody lucky it didn't hit the wheelhouse."

"Let us return to the subject at hand." S'tarak'hai remarked. "I believe Hermione wishes to know more about the orbital railroad if that expression is anything to go by."

"You're getting pretty good at reading me." Hermione said with a nod.

S'tarak'hai chuckled and nodded. "I am trained to do so with anyone I meet, but I digress. Tens of thousands of years ago, during the time when the industries of Kendarat were powered by steam heated by the burning of fossil fuels, a railroad was constructed to the peak of K'rath'han; for that reason, Kendarat has had orbital facilities since before our invention of the internal combustion engine. To this day, K'rath'han orbital railroad is the primary means of space launch for Kendarat; facilities exist at many other points on the planet's surface, orbital towers have been constructed from equatorial cities, but the sheer mass that can be taken to orbit via the railroad still exceeds that which can be transported by more conventional means. In fact, every new Mentler smallship out of the yards makes her first orbital launch via rail for luck. That is why it is Prathis K'rath'han and N'era'kathi who control Mentler; it is they who control the lands around the Lone Mountain and thus Kendarat's major spaceflight facilities."

"The early Kenti space program involved steam engines and a railroad rather than the liquid-fuel rockets most worlds use." Tara smugly added. "And the steam haulers are still in use, but these days they use an etherium furnace to heat the steam. The locomotives you're about to see were built well over eighty thousand years ago; I doubt they'll ever be decommissioned, there's too much history wrapped up in the railroad."

And the Dog drifted ever onwards; Hermione stood, transfixed, and stared in wide-eyed amazement at the hundreds, thousands, of starships that dotted the Kendarat skies like shoals of fish around a tropical reef.

"Blink Dog, Blink Dog, Blink Dog, this is the LSS-38772 Nero's Fiddle, you on there Bruce mate? Over."

Bruce picked his mike up. "Reading you loud and clear Sean mate, fancy seeing you round here. How's she going? Over."

"Aw, she's right mate, just in from the core, I got me a good load of titanium and Mentler's prices are pretty good right now. How's tricks yourself? Over"

"Fine and dinkum mate, just back from trucking livestock embryos round Clanspace. Got a weather report out Orion Neb way mate? Over."

"Snowing like crazy right through the ice clouds, and the rats are kicking up a right flamin' fuss. Blood cults all over the bloody place mate, had a couple run-ins with the bastards but those shield modules Frog put me onto are the bloody dogs bollocks so she's right. How's things in Clanspace? Over."

"Pretty quiet mate, the bloody Ashs and Skels finally settled down. Hey, hot tip of the week mate, the price for construction machinery is bloody good through most of Ash fringe space right now mate. Over."

"Roger that mate, think I'll take a look once I'm done here. See you round the galaxy some time Bruce mate. Over."

"Yeah, seeya later Sean mate. Over." Bruce put the mike back on it's hook.

"Who was that?" Hermione asked.

"Sean Sikorsky, bloke we know from New Taz, he's a tramper captain, he used to be mates with Dad." Alice told her, flashing the navigation lights as the Dog slowly overtook an immense (and nearly as travelstained as the Dog) cargo ship, while being overtaken in turn by… a dude in a blue jumpsuit with a metallic silver pack upon his back?

"The bloke put us onto a lot of good runs not long after Mom and Dad were killed." Bruce added. "So we always keep an eye out for hot tips for him. With the mess the Skels made out of the edges of Ash space, well, there's blokes making a mint shipping tools for the reconstruction, and with his cargo cap of six hundred thousand tons he should be able to make a bloody killing."

"If he picks up a load from Mentler with the dough from the run he's on, I reckon about two thousand percent profit." Tara remarked.

"Something like that." Bruce agreed with a nod.

"Which on six hundred thousand tons of construction machinery is a fuck of a lot." Alice provided.

"Mayday, Mayday, Mayday!" Another voice barked, tense and loaded with fear. "This is the AMX-2217 Southern Cross! We are coming in hot, repeat we are coming in hot! In need of immediate assistance! Over!"

"Southern Cross, we have you on the scope." The calm voice of K'rath'han STC replied. "What is the nature of your emergency? Over."

"Plasma fire in our engine room, atmosphere venting on C deck aft, power status near critical, she's not responding to the helm and we've got wounded aboard! Over!" the voice replied, raising to a near-scream.

"LSS-17332 Blink Dog, you are registered as having heavy tractor systems. Please come about and assist in decelerating the AMX-2217. Over."

"LSS-17332 here, roger that control, moving to assist." Alice languidly replied, sitting up and bracing her hand on the control yokes as she pulled her headset into place. "AMX-2217, I got your thermo sig. Don't worry about that excess delta-V – I've got it covered. Over."

"Hurry, Blink Dog! We're trying… SHIT-" the voice from the damaged ship shouted, then cut out in a howl of static.

Eyes flicking from gravidar to windshield to velocity gauges, Alice placed a hand on the main throttles and her thumb on the afterburner switch as her brother and Tara scrambled into their seats.

"Strap in, everyone." Bruce ordered, in his 'Bruce-is-very-serious' voice. "We're about to pull some heavy manoeuvres." The others scrambled into seats and snapped harnesses into place as he set the ship to yellow alert and powered up the tractor beams.

He had a quick glance round. "All hands ready for heavy manoeuvres. OK, sis – show 'em what the Dog can do. Helmswoman's ship."

"That's what I like to hear." Alice said, hauled the control yokes back, and smoothly slid the throttles to the firewall, burying the afterburners as she went. The rumble of the engines pitched up to a roar as they went from just above idle to running flat-out; attitude thrusters howled as they backflipped the little hot-rod and then she was accelerating back the way she'd come with her frame groaning in protest at the punishment.

--

It's often been said that there are three kinds of starship pilot.

The first is the kind who flies by numbers. To these pilots, operating a starship is a scientific process, a result of strings of calculations for trajectory and position. They understand the immense velocities and equally immense quantities of kinetic energy involved in movement in deep space, and treat it with respect; on the whole, they make for cautious pilots. They're most often found on the bridges of warships or commercial spaceliners.

The second kind of pilot is the type who doesn't understand the first thing about all that crap, but they understand how their ship moves because they've lived on her all their life, and they just fly. They usually have a certain flair the academy-trained pilots lack, but their willingness to take risks coupled with their lack of true understanding of those risks means they fairly often get themselves and their ships into hot water; in summation, don't let one of these guys drive unless they're old, because the young ones might be the unlucky ones. They're most often found on tramp freighters and 'space gypsy' boats.

The third type is a blend of the other two. Able to calculate a slingshot trajectory in their head and willing to take that guessed trajectory, they understand not only how and why movement in space works like it does – but they also understand exactly what any vessel you care to mention can do, exactly how far a ship can be pushed, and they are able to push the ship to that point. They're usually able to get the ship to do things that the mathematical pilot couldn't because he wouldn't dare, and the self-taught pilot couldn't because he wouldn't have any idea the ship could do that. If a captain ever gets one of these hot-shots behind the helm of his ship, he'd be a fool to get rid of that pilot, because that pilot is the material aces are made from.

Alice Lynette Walker was the third kind, primarily courtesy of her Kryptonian ancestry. Being capable of unaided sub-luminal spaceflight (and thus being the reason the backpack warp drive was invented) Kryptonians have a very literally superhuman sense of position and velocity; any child of Krypton, even a third-generation hybrid like Alice, always knows exactly where he or she is and exactly where the objects around him or her are – and exactly how he or she and they are moving. Coupled to Alice's keen intellect and razor-sharp wits, this enabled her to push the Blink Dog to the very limit of the old ship's manoeuvrability envelope; with Alice's steady hands on her helm, the Dog could do things it seemed like no ship in her size and thrust class should be capable of pulling off. And the fact that Alice had reflexes like the bastard child of greased lightning and a weasel on speed helped.

And so it was that she was able to do something few pilots would realise possible and less would dare try; she lit up the VTOL engines as well as the main turbines, expertly playing the attitude thrusters to balance the ship on the point where the thrust from both balanced out, with the result that the Blink Dog came charging up and forwards out of Alice's Immelman turn at very nearly a thousand gravities of acceleration; spectacular for any ship, and downright mind-blowing for anything with more mass than a light bomber.

"Holy _shit_, Blink Dog!" Said an admiring-sounding voice on the chatter channel. "What've you _got_ in the back of that old truck? Over."

"The turbines off a Sulare heavy tug." Alice shortly replied. "Over."

"I say again: _holy shit_. Over."

By this time the Blink Dog was no longer going backwards and was clawing her way up Kendarat's gravity well by sheer brute force alone; Bruce smiled as he saw the range to the Southern Cross starting to tick down.

"God I love this ship." He muttered, giving the wall an affectionate slap.

"Mayday relay, mayday relay, mayday relay. All vessels, please prioritise right of way to the LSS-17332 Blink Dog. Over."

All over Kendarat localspace, eyes and sensors were glued to the unfolding drama. The Southern Cross was dropping towards the planet far too fast; by the time she'd exited warp her delta-V had already gone critical. Everyone's long-range optics were telling them a part of what had happened to the unlucky ship; she had a ragged hole torn in her port aft side, from which gas and plasma was leaking, and although she wasn't under thrust her current velocity was heading her straight for her doom in the Sea of Islands at several hundred kilometres per second. Every spacer in the area had much the same thought running through whatever they used for a head; roughly, 'Jesus Christ, that poor bastard could've been _me_…'

"What the hell happened to them?" Bruce muttered. "That looks almost like a glancing torpedo hit."

"We'll find out." Tara said. That was the sum total of conversation aboard the Blink Dog until they were ten kilometres from the Southern Cross and decelerating hard to match velocities with the wounded ship; engage the tractor beams at a too high comparative velocity and they'd risk tearing the Southern Cross in half.

"Rescue Command, we have reached tractor range and matched velocities. Stand by; over." Alice reported.

"Roger; over." Control replied.

Alice nodded, even though the distant rescue controller couldn't see it. "Grab 'em, Bruce."

Bruce already had the belly turret lined up on the Southern Cross; he centred the crosshair on an undamaged-looking area of her hull and gently squeezed the tractor beam trigger. The system rumbled belowdecks, and twin lines of blue-green light erupted from the stubby lenses on the turret, connecting the injured ship to the old blockade runner.

"Got 'em."

"Right." Alice said, and pulled back on the yokes. "Come on, baby."

She eased the throttles up slowly, until a minute later the Blink Dog was blasting every erg of thrust she had down that gravity well as she fought to claw the Southern Cross out of her death-dive; her eyes were glued to the readings of the range to atmosphere contact, which was dropping like a rock. Hermione found herself caught up in the tension; she too kept her eyes glued to that gauge, and a couple of minutes after they'd made the catch Bruce glanced over and realised the girl genius from Bristol had placed her feet against the legs of the console in front of her and was pushing as hard as she could; she obviously hadn't realised what her feet were doing.

"Blink Dog here." Alice suddenly said, spinning the helm around and cutting the thrust. "Delta-V just hit the green zone; we've got him. Over."

"Roger that, LSS-17332, and thankyou. The heavy tug KRD-844721 is vectoring to take over and get him into a parking orbit. How does he look from close up? We lost contact with his bridge at the same time as you did. Over."

"Not good, Control." Alice replied. "I can see fire through several of his aft-quarter portholes on C and B decks, and he appears to have lost all power – I guess his breakers cut in because of that plasma leak. Over."

"Understood, Blink Dog. Hopefully the crew managed to seal the fire out of some compartments that still have pressure. We will know soon enough; crash rescue boats will be on the scene in approximately thirty seconds as of now. Over." Hopefully indeed; if they hadn't, the Blink Dog was towing a tomb.

"Understood, Control. We'll maintain beam contact until the KRD-844721 has the poor bastard under tow. Over."

"That was some slick flying, Blink Dog." A woman's voice said. "Ask for Captain Janeway in the Royal Cross once you get dirtside; I intend to buy your pilot a drink. Over."

"Roger that, Voyager. Over." Alice said with a chuckle once she'd identified which of the many ships in local the comment had come from.

--

Two hours later in the pressurized decks of Mount K'rath'han railroad station, the Blink Doggers finally met the ragged survivors of the AMX-2217 Southern Cross. Ten people got out alive; another two corpses were recovered, with the remaining two having been sucked out of the hull breach under warp.

The tale they told was a common enough hazard of spaceflight; they'd been knocked out of warp by a dimensional distortion field in deep space, where they'd immediately been jumped on by a rogue drone collective.

Their pilot officer had managed to put a solid keelgun shot into the interdict field generator, but not before (as Bruce had guessed) a glancing torpedo hit tore the beginnings of that hole in the ship's hull and began the plasma fire.

As soon as the interdictor went, the pilot had punched up the warp drives and got them the Hell out of there; the nearest inhabited system had happened to be Kendarat, which had been an hour's flight away if they kept their warp drive under normal operational parameters; their now-dead captain had decided 'to Hell with the operational parameters' and gave her everything she'd got.

As soon as he'd heard that, Bruce had nodded firmly and espoused his opinion that it had been the right thing to do; S'tarak'hai had rumbled his agreement with the rest of the Blink Doggers nodding along. The top ten percent of power capacity for a warp coil is for emergency use only as it can cause all sorts of problems; Alice went on to tell the Southern Cross's shaken and injured first mate that, if a plasma fire in the engine room wasn't an emergency then, well, Alice really couldn't say what was.

The captain's desperate gambit had worked, though it cost him his life; he was one of the two crew sucked into space when the damaged hull over the ship's port sideworks gave way. He and his chief engineer had been trying to cut off the life support from the holed engine room when the microfractures the hit had left in the hull over the port sideworks ripped; essentially, several square metres of hull had peeled off.

The pilot (the owner of the terrified voice on the comms) had thought for a moment that the ship was breaking up, and had nearly idled the warp throttle; again, people were lauding him for keeping her pasted to the firewall since, if he had pulled it back, he would have discovered that the only thing keeping everything going was the fact it was under load and the fire damage would, as soon as the throttle was idled, cause the ship's drivetrain to very literally fall apart.

Besides, chances were the ship's captain and chief engineer were dead as soon as the first crack appeared in the inner hull.

By the time the Southern Cross had dropped into Kendarat localspace, the fire had engulfed most of her C and D decks, and was making it's presence felt on B deck. This was where the third and fourth deaths had occurred; the ship's navigation officer and a deckhand had sacrificed themselves to seal off the rest of the ship from the flames, welding the vents shut with themselves on the wrong side.

Right after Alice began readying the Blink Dog to turn about to help, the Southern Cross's mains had finished burning through; the intense heat in her cargo bay (which had, at the time of the attack, been loaded with exotic textiles) had been enough to slag steel, and definitely enough to really screw up a superconductor.

The ten survivors were shaken, they were naturally upset about their ship and their comrades that hadn't made it, several of them were somewhat scorched or suffering the effects of smoke inhalation, and the whole lot of them were extremely lucky to be alive.

As she gazed on the burned-out shell that had been a starship, Hermione was absolutely flabbergasted by what Bruce said next:

"Well, at least' she's repairable."

"REPAIRABLE?" Hermione boggled, pointing.

Bruce nodded. "Yeah, the blast damage didn't go anywhere near her frame, and a fire that'd damage her frame would've melted clean through her hull." He shook his head. "Besides, this happened well within Kenti empire space, so Her Radiant Majesty's Armed Forces'll foot the bill to get her back in space – it's downright bloody embarrassing having a ship jumped by rogue drones less than a couple hundred lights from your home system, especially if you're a major empire. And anyway, I've seen ships rebuilt from worse. Hell, me dad's _flown_ a ship in a worse state than that, though admittedly our engine room hadn't gone up. Nuclear bomb in the hold, you get the idea."

"You mean… a **nuke** could go off in the Blink Dog's cargo bay and she'd still be fit to fly?" Hermione squeaked.

Bruce nodded. "It wasn't a big one, only twenty kilotons, but let's just say the armour between B and C decks and the firewall between the cargo bay and the engine room are designed so the whole lot of ammunition and such like that's stored in the hold when a DX is transporting super-heavy tanks can go kablooie without killing the ship. And K'rath'han-class super-heavy tanks pack a pair of five-kiloton shells each. Between the three K'rath'han's a DX can carry, that's thirty kilotons of boom in the hold without taking the other stores into account. The blast blew everything below B-deck aside from the engine room and wings clean off the ship, well, apart from the crossbraces, but you always gotta remember, as long as you've got a spaceframe, some sort of avionics and a charge on your engines you've got a functional starship, never mind how shot up she gets. We got fixed up on Clan Ash's bank account that time – we'd been running cargo for 'em, and they let some Clan Skel agent sneak a nuke on a time fuse into the shipment. It's all part of the contract – if we take damage because the customer fucked up, they damn better pay for it or all the good crews will give cut rates against 'em."

"Blockade runners stick together." Tara remarked. "Especially the ones who know what they're doing. Folks like us don't have much we can call our own for sure; we got our hot-rod, we got our honour, and we got our pals."

"And there ain't _nobody_ takes them away from us." Alice said with a firm nod.

"Play it straight with a blockade runner and word'll get around that your money's where your mouth is." Bruce agreed. "Fuck over one blockade runner and there ain't a blockade runner captain in the galaxy that'll ever be stupid enough to trust you again."

"And the fee is rate _plus costs_." Tara said.

"So how come you didn't bill Harry for the damage to the Dog back in that mess on Azeroth?" Hermione asked.

"Not _his_ fault we fucked up." Bruce said with a shrug. "It's my fault; I got cocky, I didn't chase down that railgun slug, I was like, 'It'll turn up'. And sure as death and taxes, it turned up. Besides, he bloody paid for the damage whether we asked or not."

Alice and Tara nodded and grinned, thinking about the ultra-high-performance drag racing warp coil that was now attached to the business end of the Dog's drivetrain.

"Time is going by, people." S'tarak'hai remarked. "Our descent is scheduled in ten minutes; we had best return to the ship."

So they did.

--

They met up with the others at the foot of the mountain in one of the myriad spaceport bars roughly four hours later; here descending into atmosphere meant getting your ship loaded onto a staggeringly enormous railway flatcar, winched down by relays of cable for the first couple hundred kilometres, shunted into a yard, coupled to a train of ten similar flatcars (most of them likewise bearing starships) and a locomotive of matching size, which then proceeded to slowly and carefully lower the train down the mountain, frequently stopping to change air hoses until it was down where the atmosphere was thick enough to negate the requirement.

Once at the base of the mountain, the train was drawn up to a cargo dock of vast proportions where the ships taxied off, and the flatcars were sent to be marshalled for loading before returning up the mountain.

The scale on which it was all built beggared belief; the rail gauge was close to sixty metres, with the rails themselves being constructed at Size Obnoxiously Large; standing beside the track, Hermione would have been unable to see over the rails, and there were enough sets of them laid parallel up the side of the mountain that she hadn't got around to counting them before they taxied away out of sight into the starport proper.

And, as they walked into the spaceport bar, Harry Johnson immediately annoyed Hermione by saying, "Took your fucking time."

Suddenly, she had to wonder why she'd missed him at all.

--

Ben clicked the wipers on as the car rumbled through the rain. It sheeted down in a seemingly-infinite curtain, flicking off the windscreen, leaping up from the tyres and running along the roof. To the right of the winding, wood-hugged road, a grey, ferocious river surged past, pounding over waterfall after waterfall, lifting a constant roar like endless thunder from the rocky hillsides as it plunged on down towards the sea. The cliffs were blighted by ancient, weathered mining scars and streams of pockmarks like old bullet dents, and along each side of the road was an endless progression of duranium tablets, each engraved with a dozen names in Old Kentare.

"What's with this place?" Hermione asked. They were in Ben's car, with S'tarak'hai in the front passenger seat, and Hermione squeezed into the back along with Michelle, Ron, and Ginny Weasely. Several of the others were crammed into the Blink Dog's battered shore tender or the old taxi owned by the Weasely twins (which had been brought to a wheezing state that could charitably be called life the day before) apart of course from Harry, who (Insane! Out of his mind!) was riding the Fenrir despite the pissing rain. It had been raining ever since they came over the mountains and into that river valley.

S'tarak'hai emitted a dark chuckle.

"This is R'targath'enar – the River of the Storm's Tears. My ancestral homeland. Take the next left, Ben; be careful, the track is rough and there is a steep drop-off along the side."

Ben turned onto the track as instructed; it was a buckled strip of ancient blacktop, pounded out of shape by aeons of vehicles, feet, and torrential rain.

"Where does this lead?" Hermione asked.

"The Shrine of Pilgrim's Rest." S'tarak'hai quietly stated. "Home."

Ben carefully eased the Dodge round the last corner. The shrine was hollowed out of a cliff face; the cliffs and the stones of the shrine were pitted with ancient bullet holes, and the gaps between the mighty paving slabs that formed the overhang-sheltered forecourt were stained a dull rusty brown. There was plenty enough room for the three cars and one ballistic missile to park in the vast, strangely silent cave; S'tarak'hai indicated everyone to park at the side furthest from the shrine itself.

A tall, willowy Kenti woman with pale off-white spotted fur emerged from a side door; when she saw who was unfolding out of the passenger's side of the Charger, she smiled and gracefully ignored the dripping and swearing from where Harry was wringing his hair out.

"Hello, Master. Welcome home."

S'tarak'hai grew a massive smile; he enfolded the girl in a hug.

"Kalai; it is good to see you."

Releasing her, he turned and smiled at the others.

"My friends, welcome to the Shrine of Pilgrim's Rest." He turned back to Kalai and gestured at the others. "These are my friends whom I told you of."

"Welcome." Kalai said, bowing deeply. "Lord Stormclaw, Sir Benjamin, Lady Michelle, it is good to see you again."

"Hi Kalai!" Michelle chirped, and went bouncing over to hug the pale-furred girl.

"R'garat'har. Theria. T'rash'gal. Reiana. T'ar'gel. Zarie. K'rag'lath. Naria. Ruka." Alice read out from the engraving by the door.

"The names of those who fell in this shrine during the slaughter." S'tarak'hai told her. "R'gara'hai, my ancestor, was the youngest son of T'rash'gal and Reiana; he was the only survivor from this district. R'garat'har and Theria were his paternal grandparents; T'ar'gel, Zarie, and K'rag'lath were his brothers and sister, and Naira and Ruka were the shrine slaves. The bloodstains are still visible between the paving slabs, even after so long." He pointed to a bullet scar in the wall. "That is where the round that slew Ruka hit the wall after it had passed through her head; she was the first to die. That pattern of bullet scars on the far wall were fired from T'rash'gal's autorifle in defence of the shrine; he was crouching just inside the door. The trail of scars at waist height are from the machine gun burst that finally killed him; he killed eighty-seven Temple thugs with eighty-seven rounds fired before they managed to finish him. The three rifle scars lower on the wall are from where Naira grabbed up his rifle and took over, firing his last three rounds and dispatching another two Temple thugs."

"Ye gods. How do you _know_ this stuff?" Hermione asked.

"The Temple was as bureaucratic as they were barbaric." S'tarak'hai firmly stated. "Plus, there was plentiful evidence in the form of bullet holes, bloodstains and dismembered body parts found to back up their version of event when the valley was finally retaken. Kalai here's ancestor, Little Alpha K'ran'leth of Prathi T'rael'aisha, was the leader of the Talon Team that found the Temple's reports on all of it's many atrocities; I could show you, but you would not understand it since it is in Old Kentare. They were exhaustive." As he spoke, S'tarak'hai had led his friends into the shrine's foyer. "That trail of bullet holes and the bloodstain are where Naira was finally killed after putting paid to eight Temple scum with a kitchen knife. R'garat'har crouched just here and opened fire as they entered, using a sub-machine gun he snatched from the hands of the first Temple thug Naira knifed. The shrapnel scars are from the grenade that killed him and T'ar'gel, who had likewise scavenged a weapon. Zarie had ducked into that side passage, which leads to the kitchen, in time to avoid the blast, and returned fire with her likewise pilfered weapon; that is where those scars over there came from. She and K'rag'lath died from another grenade burst just down the corridor. Theria grabbed up the gun and a poker and managed to kill another twenty-three Temple goons, three of them with the poker, before she too was gunned down. Reiana barricaded herself into the innermost shrine with R'garat'har's old hunting rifle and three bottles of moonshine, and managed to hold out for seventy-nine hours before she was eventually gassed."

He pointed at a glass-fronted case; within were a pair of rifles (one of them bolt-action and the other looking like an outsize AK47) three overgrown sub-machine guns, five kitchen knives, and a bent poker. The knives and poker were stained brown.

"There are the weapons they used. They defended this place so stubbornly that they seemingly earned a hint of respect from even the Temple; when the valley was retaken their bodies were found here, seated on chairs taken from the shrine's dining room, the weapons they had used resting in their laps, surrounded by a veritable mountain of Temple equipment, apparently the kit of the filth they slew. Aside from the Shrine of the River's Birth, greatest shrine in this river valley, they were the only shrine to hold out for more than ten minutes; they managed no less than eighteen hours, not counting Reiana's defence of the innermost shrine, and in the process they managed to kill over four hundred Temple goons, including a hundred and eight shot by Reiana through the gap she left in the barricade, eighty-seven courtesy of T'rash'gal and ninety-six cut down in the front corridor by Naria, T'ar'gel, Zarie and R'garat'har. Even Theria managed to kill a good number, despite being partially blind and stone deaf from age. In no other place did the Temple show their victims the scantest portion of respect; with the exception of the hundred and seven led out of the valley and to safety by my ancestor R'gara'hai, every other member of Prathi R'hara'tath, over six million people, were hacked apart and thrown in the river. The High Alpha was taken alive; they cut off his wings, put out his eyes, and crucified him on the walls of the Shrine of the River's Birth, then left him to the carrion birds, surrounded by the bodies of his wives, children and slaves, who had been skinned alive, had their wings hacked off, and were hung up around him while still breathing." He glanced outside at the rain that sheeted past the entrance. "It is said the Storm herself wept when she heard the slaughter begin; since that time, it has always rained in this place."

"Gods." Hermione murmured.

"It was a barbaric time." S'tarak'hai agreed. "And that is why no religion is ever allowed a part in politics within the Thousand Kingdoms."

The rumble of a big engine announced another vehicle coming rolling into the cave; looking back out the door, Hermione was startled to see a vehicle that resembled an overgrown Hummer with the open tarpaulin-clad loadbed of a military cargo truck, closely followed by another two near-identical vehicles. All three were about fifteen feet wide by thirty long and ten tall, all three were painted a drab olive green, all three had hip-rings on their roofs fitted with identical hulking great machine guns, and all three had that certain chunky shape and stance that you only see in military vehicles.

"The others were not hanging around." S'tarak'hai muttered as the trucks pulled up.

Their doors swung open in near-perfect unison, and a number of Kenti began climbing out or jumping down from the back. All were dressed in drab woodland camouflage battledress and toting heavy bullpup rifles; all moved with that deadly precision one only ever sees in an elite soldier.

There were apparently three in the lead truck's cab; an eight foot heavyset Kenti woman with sandy off-brown fur and a startling familial resemblance to S'tarak'hai, a tiger-furred tank of a guy nearly as big as S'tarak'hai, and a small (only six foot six) pale-furred woman equipped with an unadorned wooden staff which a closer look showed to be absolutely covered in little carved-in runes; this staff had a rifle-style sling swivel attached to one end and a matching swivel halfway down, with attached two-point sling of the sort usually found attached to a rifle. Another fifteen Kenti and a human with matching battledress emerged from the back of the truck; Hermione found she recognised several of them from the set of photographs S'tarak'hai had on his bureau at the Collegium.

They were, collectively, Her Radiant Majesty's First Legion Section 22 Talon Seven; S'tarak'hai's squad, along with another squad Hermione didn't recognise.

A massive, powerfully built Kenti man (at perhaps eight feet tall not quite as large as S'tarak'hai, but easily as wide) with deep-brown fur greying round the edges and a very familiarly-shaped face swung out the second truck's driver's door; change his fur and he'd have looked exactly like S'tarak'hai. A short stocky guy with wild raggedy black fur and sardonic eyes swung down from the other side, then handed down from the cab a tall woman who looked startlingly like an older longer-haired version of Tara; this woman was dressed in a scruffy check shirt, denim jeans with heavily-worn knees, HRMAF combat boots, a battered grey tank-top, and a bright metal circlet at her brow.

"STREWTH!" Bruce and Alice chorused. The expressions of the assorted Weaselys went a bit glazed, and Fleggitt went positively bug-eyed.

"Great Scott, is that…?"

"Yes." Harry said, and the Frognorfian looked absolutely gobsmacked.

"Great Scott!" he repeated.

"Hi Rialia!" Michelle squeaked, going bouncing over and hugging the woman, earning herself a faintly bemused look from S'tarak'hai, then she went bouncing off randomly hugging people as per usual.

"Interesting." Harry said with a smile, and went sauntering over to the woman, nodding to the big greying-furred guy as he went.

"Rialia." He said. "It's been far too long."

A bright smile lit the woman's face, and she flung her arms round Harry and soundly kissed him on both cheeks.

"Indeed it has." she said, and disengaged then subjected Ben to the same treatment.

"Gudday Rialia, how's tricks?" the loony Jedi asked.

"Same old, same old." Rialia told him, then turned her attention on the others. "Benjamin, Lord Venger, who are your friends?"

Harry smirked. "Well, you already know Michelle, catboy, Carla, Kitten and the Puma twins." He said. "But anyway, this pair of jokers are Fred and George Weasely, and you're not the only one who has trouble telling them apart. This is their younger brother, Ron Weasely. This is Fleggitt Marwillip Nelkroddly, our obligatory resident Frognorfian. These two are Bruce and Alice Walker, they're the mutual owner-operators of the LSS-17332 Blink Dog, and this is their navigator and surrogate elder sister, Tarai T'rash'gal. This is Luna Lovegood. And last but definitely not least, this is Hermione Granger. Guys, I'd like you to meet an old friend of mine and Ben's; Her Radiant Majesty Queen Rialia R'harash'gai the Twelfth of the Thousand Kingdoms of Kendarat."

**--End Chapter--**

AN –

Well, can't say I expected to be posting a whole pile of chapters at one go, but oh well. Stuff happened, I had to rebuild bits of the chapters, I procrastinated – you know the way. It's here now, and hopefully the next chapter won't take quite so long to materialise.

Apologies for the slight preachiness in the disclaimer; my father used to be a paramedic on Torridon Mountain Rescue Team and it's a subject I feel rather strongly about, so I wasn't prepared to leave it alone when the sequence with the Southern Cross came up. Incidentally, the bad fortune of the Southern Cross simply decided to write itself into the approach scene. The approach scene itself is there to contrast to the approach scenes at Azeroth Prime and Dachaigh Nuadh; I wanted to underscore how decidedly different the various worlds are.

Janeway's just a reference slung in to hopefully give people brain-snaps; her presence has no meaning at all.

Doghead Out.


	8. Chapter 8

"Pleased to meet you all

**This ain't no self-insert fic.**

**This ain't no slash fic neither.**

**This is Top Dog.**

--

_I got a big fat Cadillac built for you  
I got a honk that'll blow the avenue  
Got a hot dog kickin' all bend my thing  
Got a sugar looking woman with a bald headed man  
Give me five o here boy, that's what I'll do  
Got a big fat momma who can hold a tune  
Gotta slip that bone in hard and mean  
A honky tonk woman get the best of me  
Can't hold me back_

- AC-DC, 'Hold Me Back', -Stiff Upper Lip-

--

"Pleased to meet you all." The queen said. She placed a hand on the shoulder of the wild-haired man who'd helped her down from the truck. "This is my consort, Duke T'rael'aisha N'alat'yai." She then placed her hand on the shoulder of the huge greying-furred guy who looked vaguely like S'tarak'hai. "And this is my personal bodyguard, High Alpha K'tarag'jal R'hara'tath."

All of a sudden, there came a cry of, "HARRY!" and a slightly gawky brown-furred Kenti girl who looked to be in the very first stages of puberty came rocketing out of the midst of the group of soldiers who were clambering out the back of the truck in which the queen had ridden.

Said pipsqueak proceeded to fling herself at and wrap herself round Harry's middle.

"Hi, Zarie." He said, lifting the girl up into his arms.

"Lord Stormclaw." A very large Kenti woman with a distinct familial resemblance to S'tarak'hai said, emerging from the crowd and favouring Harry with a bow. She was about eight foot tall, with the same sort of sandy fur as S'tarak'hai, and the entire left-hand side of her was composed of olive drab cybernetic metal; her left eye was an ovoid camera-like lens. She was just as heavily-armed as S'tarak'hai, which looked a little odd considering she was dressed in a formal-looking gown.

"Good to see you back on your feet, Naira." Harry said, extending a hand, which the catwoman firmly shook.

"You know what they say about we R'hara'taths." The big woman rumbled. "We just do not know when to stay down."

Harry chuckled. "I'll say.

K'tarag'jal turned his attention to the varied military personnel who were milling around. "Third talon, fifth talon, you are on watch; establish a five hundred metre perimeter and mark all vehicles that enter the demarcation zone. Seventh, fourth, you are with me."

"Sir!" several voices barked, and two groups of ten broke off from the disorderly crowd, sprinting out into the rain. The remained formed up along with S'tarak'hai, and K'tarag'hal turned back to the various guests. "Let us head inside; I understand a small repast has been prepared. You are to leave all footwear on the rack at the door."

"S'tarak'hai old chap, what the devil is going on?" Fleggitt asked.

The hulking catman gave his roommate a wry grin.

"Let us just say my liege expressed a desire to meet a certain young lady of our acquaintance face-to-face, and this was the best I could come up with on short notice." He said.

"Sneaky, catboy." Harry remarked.

"Sneaky is my job." S'tarak'hai sagely informed him.

Harry rolled his eyes. "Bloody Special Forces. You're all too bloody dedicated for your own bloody good."

Over where she was currently leaning against the wall, Alice Walker noticed the weird expression on Tara's face.

The inky-furred catwoman looked a bit like she'd seen a ghost; she was staring at a slender blue-furred woman who had just climbed out of one of the trucks.

"You okay, Nav?"

"Ever had one of those days when you're not sure if you're awake or still dreaming?" Tara asked, sounding a lot distracted.

"… not really, no." Alice admitted.

Tara nodded distantly, then visibly pulled herself together, and grinned wryly at her crewmates, though that said, both Bruce and Alice knew her well enough to recognise the shaken-up edge on that grin.

"I'm okay." She said. "Just having a very surreal day."

--

**Disclaimer: Wherever you go, there you are.**

--

**Top Dog: Enter the Fnords**

**Intermission 1: Harry Johnson and the Lunatic Scientist**

**A Doghead13 / United Galaxies fanfic**

**Written & produced by Calum J 'Doghead13' Wallace**

**Preread by KuroNeko**

**Hosted by Studio Asynjor**

**Brought to you by Hairy Scottish Git Productions, GMBH**

**This is not a drill.**

--

**Chapter 8: Interlude at the R'hara'tath Place.**

**(In which some rather intense conversations occur.)**

It didn't take long for the introductions to blur together. The R'hara'tath family was massive; it seemed that K'tarag'jal had fathered well over a hundred children, several of whom had children of their own, and in fact several of them had grandchildren and in one case great-grandchildren, and that was just counting the ones who were still alive and had made it to this particular gathering. The shorter maturing time of Kenti coupled with their long lifespan meant that it was entirely possible for a Kenti to have siblings who were several centuries their elder, especially if their parents started early, which it seemed K'tarag'jal had. He was several centuries old, and it seemed at least one of his varied wives and/or concubines had been pregnant for most of that time, with the result that there were too many R'hara'taths for Hermione to keep track of, and nearly all of them unnervingly massive – aside from the handful of half-human ones, each and every one of S'tarak'hai's siblings was immensely tall and powerfully built. Even most of the myriad preteen kids were taller than Hermione, and had a shitload more muscle.

There was even one guy who was bigger than S'tarak'hai – a hulking ten-foot titan, built like some sort of excavation machinery, with shoulders that you could have used as bench seats and an immensely powerful jaw; it looked like he could bite through starship armour. He had a drab green cybernetic left arm so big it looked like it was made from labor components, and his hands were so immense he could have completely engulfed Hermione's head in one palm. What was _with_ R'hara'tath's and left arms? There was a _hell_ of a lot of cybernetic _left_ arms in the room, and only the one right one, on a pretty blue-eyed sandy-haired half-Kenti who was currently talking to S'tarak'hai…

Hermione had never really expected to meet someone who made Hagrid and S'tarak'hai look small, but here he was, towering head and shoulders over most of his siblings and discussing something with Harry in a voice so deep it made S'tarak'hai sound positively squeaky by comparison. Hermione was by now used to being around big people; this guy went beyond big and reached the point of preternaturally massive.

It was almost like being stuck in the land of the giants.

In the end, Hermione only managed to memorise who S'tarak'hai's mother and siblings from the same birthing were; his mother was a short white-furred woman with copious cybernetics all down her left side and a hideously scarred face, and his two sisters, Naira and Reiana, were both massive brawny young women with a startling resemblance to their triplet brother. It seemed multiple births were the norm among Kenti, with a proportionally far higher number of girls than boys; every last male Kenti among the family had at least two sisters from the same birthing.

Thinking about it, Hermione found herself wondering what she'd expected the sisters of S'tarak'hai R'hara'tath to be like anyway. She should have guessed they'd be massive brawny specimens of sentience just like their brother. Eight feet of sullen muscle and sandy-brown fur didn't exactly make for a paragon of femininity, but then, who was Hermione to judge? Both were long cords of knotted muscle and tension, with breasts that stood out enough that Hermione had to wonder exactly when they'd last seen their own navels, and didn't they get problems with lower back pain? Of course, beside their brother they seemed small and delicate, but then, pretty much anyone did. S'tarak'hai was after all a nine-foot tower of muscle and fur and barely-restrained anger, and his triplets were a marginally smaller female version of the same.

And, aside from the fact that most of Naira's left-hand side was composed of drab olive-green cybernetic metal, the two girls were as alike as the Weasely twins; they went a step beyond familial resemblance. Hermione could see how, prior to Naira's injury and cyborgisation, it must have been virtually impossible to tell the two apart.

This clan of cats was faintly reminiscent of a Kenti version of the Addams family, come to think of it.

K'tarag'jal was the distant, barely-reachable patriarch of the clan; a man so tied up in his military work that he barely saw his family. Theria was the one who was really in charge in the household; S'tarak'hai could face down a charging troll without batting an eyelid, but present him with his hideously scarred white-furred mother and he suddenly went all, 'Yes mother, as you say mother' and did his startling transformation into a big pussy cat, a bit like he did around Tara. It was shockingly obvious that the entire family was scared spitless of their half-alive matriarch.

S'tarak'hai's assorted siblings and the varied other adult women, of whom there were no less than twenty, one of whom looked startlingly like Queen Rialia and one of whom looked human, all pointedly deferred to Theria. But then, who wouldn't? The way the scars on the left side of her face twisted her mouth up into a permanent sneer, coupled with the blank stare of her utilitarian camera-like cybernetic eye, made her downright petrifying, and Hermione somehow figured that she didn't get any less scary if you knew her.

--

"So… how is she?" The queen asked, settling herself beside Harry; K'tarag'jal R'hara'tath seated himself the far side of her.

"Doing all right, far as I can see." Harry said. "I'm still not sure what her game is, but whatever. She's a good kid, got a good head on her shoulders, knows how to handle a tight situation…" He shrugged. "Pretty bloody good navigator too, only guy I've ever seen run a tighter route is Han bloody Solo."

"How is she doing at the Collegium?"

"Pretty good so far. Girl knows her stuff – reckon she could sit the test for fifth-circle alchemist right now and get good marks. She's got a bit of an elemental affinity for lightning, but it's not like that's anything unusual in a Kenti. Not much of a one for transmogrification, but she gets by."

"What of her accommodation at the Collegium?"

Harry jerked a thumb at where Hermione was now involved in an intense conversation with Kalai, who happened to be S'tarak'hai's personal household slave. "She's rooming with Hermione."

"Is that safe?" Rialia asked, worriedly glancing at Tara.

"Yeah, I think so." Harry said. "I mean, okay, she likes pulling Hermione's leg over the whole Earther-mundane thing, but she seems to like Hermione, didn't exactly take her long to start getting Hermione to help her combing her fur, so yeah, I'm pretty sure Tara's not a threat."

"That is not what I meant, and you know it." the queen snapped.

"Get a clue." Harry advised. "It may surprise you to learn that some of us can see past the Omega-weapon stamp on Hermione's dossier, and some of us care about more than her aura."

"You love her?" Rialia checked.

"You're an annoyingly perceptive woman, you know that Riala?" Harry remarked. "But of course, if anyone tells Hermione, I'll deny it."

"But… why?" the queen asked.

Harry shook his head.

"I had a bit of a fiddle around in her mind last year." He said. "Hadn't got a whole lot of choice. Kill or control, remember? She's completely incapable of disobeying me. I could tell her to do anything – _anything at all_ – and she'd do it, without hesitation or question." He grimaced. "Frankly, out of all forms of rape, mind-control rape is the most utterly reprehensible and I refuse to sink that low. Nope, anything happens, she'll be the one to initiate it."

"You are quite a guy, Johnson." K'tarag'jal rumbled, sounding faintly amused.

"I'm a product of my life." Harry said with a shrug. "You know how I grew up; I know Shar is a Department 44 plant, so you've got information on my big breakdown. After _that_… heh, don't tell me you're surprised."

"Surprised? No." K'tarag'jal said. "Pleased? In a way. Many men of your power become drunk upon it."

"It's a long hard road out of Hell." Harry said with another shrug.

--

Harry and the queen continued talking for a good twenty minutes after they'd eaten; one of those circular conversations that never gets anywhere. Then, having noticed Hermione sloping off out the front of the shrine, Harry made his excuses and went to check on her.

He found her standing beside the Fenrir and staring off out into the eternal downpour with a pensive look on his face. This was a mood he recognised; it was the expression of a Hermione experiencing culture shock.

So he leant against the bike, rolled a cigarette, and started smoking it while keeping a surreptitious eye on her; sometimes the only thing you can do for someone is be there.

"I would've thought the Kenti army would use hovertrucks." She eventually said, and he made a mental check-mark; when she'd had a shock, her train of thought usually got somewhat randomised leading her to dwell on odd things.

"Reliability." Harry said.

"What do you mean?" Hermione asked, finally looking at him.

He smiled sideon at her.

"The Kenti invented your conventional internal combustion engined wheeled vehicle over eighty thousand years ago." He said. "And they've been refining it ever since. Sure, most civilian transport uses aircars – but in a military operation, if an aircar conks out, you've just lost everything aboard that vehicle. Okay, so if a Kenti's got sharp reflexes they can bale out, but bang goes any stores aboard the aircar. A piston-engined groundwheeler is a pretty simple piece of kit; if it goes belly-up in the field, odds are the crew will be able to get it to run with available materials, especially if you've got a half-competent bush mechanic around. Plus they're tough enough they can take a few shots without falling to bits; hell, those things are even tougher than a Land-Rover. They're built like a tank, and I'm meaning that literally; they can shrug off most small-arms fire, they're armoured."

"They don't look it." Hermione said.

"The bodyshell on those things is made of the same sort of laminate as a starship's armour. Thinner, but still pretty tough. The canvas over the loadbed is actually armacloth, the same stuff as they make their BDU's out of – it's as resilient to kinetic damage as a foot of Kevlar, and it'll perform a darn sight better than Kevlar against energy weapons. Plus they've got a supercharged 3,000 brake horsepower methane-burning V12 engine under the front; those trucks got some _serious_ grunt."

"They must eat fuel like it's going out of fashion."

He shook his head, noting as he did the approach of K'tarag'jal R'hara'tath and Queen Rialia. "Nothing like you'd think. Remember, you're used to Earther internal combustion engines, which are a technology that's been around for less than two centuries. On good-quality methane, you'll get nearly sixty miles per gallon out of one of those trucks; an equivalent Earther engine would be burning about four gallons per mile. Put it another way; you could feed Ron baked beans and curry, wait overnight, shove the fuel pipe up his arse, and you'd be good for a couple thousand miles."

Hermione gave him one of her that's-disgusting looks. "Come on, his wind can't be that bad."

"Feed his roommate a whole load of vodka, wait till he says he fancies a kebab, and ask." Harry said. "It's at about that point of drunk that Nev starts calling Ron 'The Carrot-Topped Methane Machine', while at about the same point Ron starts calling Nev 'Mr Napalm', and I'm not sure I want to know why."

"I'm sure I'd have remembered that." Hermione said.

"Those guys have a somewhat higher tolerance for alcohol than you; the amount of booze Nev is capable of putting away is downright prodigious, and Ron drinks like he eats – fast, messy, and in large quantities. By the point they're _that_ drunk, you've usually passed out on the snooker table with Tara and the Patil twins."

"Are you interested in showing us what you can do, Miss Granger?" K'tarag'jal rumbled, making Hermione jump; she'd been over-focusing again. Harry made a mental note that he really needed to train her out of that habit; it was the sort of thing that'd likely get her killed some day.

Turning round, Hermione smiled nervously at the big catman.

"Well, if you're sure it's okay? I mean, I haven't passed the first circle test yet, I'm not supposed to use magecraft outside of an educational environment, well, apart from in emergencies." Yeah, shook-up; she was babbling.

"Child, in the Thousand Kingdoms my word is law." Queen Rialia said, smiling at the nervous girl genius. "And I say that it is perfectly permissible for you to demonstrate your abilities if you so wish."

"Besides, if the Hogwarts Board of Directors tried to expel you for it, I'd go and politely ask them not to." Harry remarked, an evil glint appearing in his eyes. "I'm sure they'd be eager to accommodate my more than reasonable request – assuming they want to continue breathing."

"You gotta be joking." Hermione muttered, giving him a dour look.

Harry glanced at Rialia and K'tarag'jal.

"Chance of a little privacy?" he said.

"Be my guest." K'tarag'jal said, and he and the queen remained beside the Fenrir as Harry grabbed Hermione's wrist and led her over to Ben's car, which he proceeded to sit on the bonnet of.

"What's going on?" Hermione asked, then noticed something back the way they'd come; K'tarag'jal was clutching his head and swearing. "Hey, what's wrong with him?"

"Paranoid old loon shouldn't have trained his directional mike on us." Harry told her. "Let's just say, when you aim one of those things at someone who's carrying an activated white noise generator, it's a superb way to give yourself a splitting headache. Anyway, there's some home truths I've been trying to get through to you for over six months now. I'm starting to wonder when what you're really capable of and what you mean to people like me and Rialia is going to finally sink in. You've never believed you're anything special, have you? Even after everything that's happened, you still _know_ you're just a regular, if highly intelligent, teenage girl. You're wrong about that, kiddo. You're _not_ just a regular girl, you never have been, and you never will be. My time is worth a lot of money, and I spent a good-sized chunk of it keeping an eye on you; your entire life, there's always been at least one me within two kilometres, usually closer. I didn't spend thirty years of my valuable time watching your back for nothing. Hogwarts is supposedly the highest-performing Collegium in known space; that's why I arranged for you to attend, I'd have preferred to have you safe at Jurai City – I still regret having you sent to Hogwarts, place hasn't lived up to it's reputation as yet – but let's face facts; the die is cast. I've got an important job to do at Hogwarts, and, hell, what kind of dumb shit mercenary doesn't keep his most powerful weapon in easy reach? Face it, Hermione; you're the best chance civilisation has of permanently getting shot of a certain worthless lizard-lipped fuck."

"I don't see it." Hermione admitted.

Harry cocked his head.

"Ever wondered what would happen to someone if you focused all the power of an exploding star into an area a touch bigger than they are, split fifty-fifty between heat and astral damage? They can take their pussy little Av Kav and shove it; about the only death spell I can think of that's more powerful than _that_ is Mjolnir set on Annihilate mode. Dumbledore told me something very interesting a few months back." He reeled off the words of the prophecy. "You wanna know what I think? I think that didn't specify what it means about _having_ powers the Dork Lord knows not, does it? And, frankly, there aren't a whole load of purebloods who regard you as anything but a lie spread by what they call 'muggle-loving scum' such as Dumbledore or Yours Truly; Lucius Malfoy and Janus Parkinson are about the only ones I can think of with the bandwidth to accept the advantages inherit in possessing you. But I'm getting sidetracked. There's a few spells that are, to date, entirely theoretical. Until you came along, there just wasn't a powerful enough source of thaumatic energy. We know how thaumatic energy behaves; we know how it responds to sentient will. All we need is a powerful enough will, which you've got, focusing a near-infinite well of energy, which you've got, and theory will become reality. You are changing the galaxy as we speak, Hermione. The laws of physics are being rewritten to take you into account. Anything you can imagine, you can achieve. You've even got easily enough power to punch a hole in the space-time continuum. Take the New Australia star system. It's artificial; it's a machine designed to generate and control wormholes – and it gets it's power from the entire galactic local group around it. Generating a wormhole takes about as much energy as what you'd get from the entire power output of an average galaxy; well, let's just say the M51 Whirlpool galaxy and most of it's local group – this galaxy included – each donate about ten percent of their thaumatic power output to the moons of New Australia, which focus and control that _near-infinite _well of energy to punch precisely accurate holes in space and time." He chuckled. "And, let's just say, my hand is on the ass of one of the tiny number of things with enough oomph to do the same job."

"Harry, get your hand off my ass."

Harry smirked, gave Hermione's ass a squeeze, and leant back against the side of the car, ignoring the way she was glaring at him.

"You're very important to me on several levels, kid." He said, idly hooking a finger through the ring on her collar. "Let's just say, I wouldn't tag," and here he gave the ring a gentle tug, "Just _anyone_. There's only one person in the universe who's allowed to mess with you, Hermione, and he's _me_. You know about the term, 'Apex predator'?"

"Sure I do. It's basically a predatory species which nothing preys upon."

"Humans are not apex predators." Harry said. "All sorts of things prey upon humans – vampires, for a start." He sighed quietly. "Dragons _do not_ have natural enemies. _Nothing_ can eat a dragon. Not many creatures can even survive _attempting_ to eat a dragon, even if they somehow managed to kill one of us – core body temperature hotter than molten lead, remember? We've got a messed-up biology, which is startlingly toxic to most species. 'I am big, fly, breath fire, and taste of eww. You do not want to eat me'. That's what the sight of a dragon means to most carnivores. There's a few that'll try – Ravenous Bugblatter Beasts, for a start – but they tend to be naturally selected out of the genepool in a very short time. I am an apex predator. That means I'm at the very top of the food chain, Hermione m'girl – and it also means, when I tell the galaxy you're off limits, then anyone stupid enough not to listen is in deep, deep, shit. Now c'mon; Rialia wants to see what you're capable of, and there's something I'd like to see you try…"

--

The spell was simple. A few words, focusing power into the space between her hands, then holding it there, not letting the tiniest bit escape, not letting the tiniest bit of the world around it slip inside. She'd done similar things plenty times before.

However, the flood of power was new. If asked to compare it to anything, she'd have been unable to find the right words; at a pinch, she'd say it was something like _being_ the Chernobyl reactor a millisecond before meltdown, but _more so_. She'd touched the edge of it before, running the heavier attack spells John Kirth had taught them; one, a medium-powered anti-tank spell called Drill Brand, had kicked back so hard she skidded a couple feet across the classroom. Or the flash of intent and the feeling of some insane barely-controlled power she'd felt when she cast the bug-detection spell on Harry all those months ago.

But neither had anything on this. Her entire world became the incredibly dense black dot with it's corona of shimmering blue light between her hands, and Harry's calm voice talking her through; she was quite unaware of her hair and clothes shifting as if in some otherworldy wind, or the dust and pebbles levitating out of the cracks in the stonework she was standing on, or the way the nearest vehicles began shifting a little on their suspension.

And then, the spell was over, the unbelievable power she'd focused into it gently dispersed, and the black speck gone; she shook herself as she came back to herself, now aware of heat at her throat and the rattle of pebbles landing, and the awed expressions on the faces of Kenti queen and bodyguard.

"Dal Tarag tar Jal…" K'tarag'jal breathed.

"Geez, that knocked the stuffing out of me." Hermione said, sitting down on the Walker's ute's bonnet with a thump and wiping the thin film of sweat off her forehead. "Hey, and, well, my collar's kinda hot."

"Interesting; you're progressing faster than I expected." Harry said. "Anyway, I'm not surprised you're feeling a bit worn."

"Uh? Hey, what _was_ that spell anyway?"

Harry grinned at her.

"That was you creating and controlling a quantum singularity." He said. "Of course you're bloody tired. Up till today, that was an entirely theoretical spell; you're the first magic user ever known to have the power for the trick." He grinned at the gobsmacked look that was now on Hermione's face, and dropped another bombshell. "Congratulations, kiddo. They're going to have to rewrite the laws of physics; Washu's gonna shit bricks."

Hermione stared blankly at her hands.

"What the hell _am_ I?" she asked.

"You're the same person you were ten minutes ago." Harry told her. "It's just you now know more about yourself, and, shit, that's a good thing."

"It's scary as Hell." Hermione said.

"Ain't it just." Harry agreed, sitting down beside her and pulling her into a one-armed hug.

"What if I lose control?" Hermione asked.

"You're not going to lose control." Harry told her. "You just created, kept control of, and safely dissipated, a quantum singularity. What the hell's a piddling little thermonuclear-strength fireball compared to _that_? Here's the trick, kiddo. I noticed a while back, it's the small stuff that gives you problems. The crap we were studying at Hogwarts last year is designed so an average first-year magecraft student has enough power for it. For you, it's like using the Blink Dog's afterburners to light a birthday cake candle. 'Overkill' doesn't even start to describe what applying your aura to a spell designed to only take a couple kilothaums is like. That makes it take all your concentration to maintain control of the small things." He shrugged and grinned. "This is good, because by the time you're through, you'll have one of the finest touches in the galaxy."

"What's with my collar heating up?" Hermione asked.

"Any focusing array can only handle a certain level of power being put through it, and if you run it too hard, it's gonna fail." Harry said with his usual flippant shrug. "That's why there's a practical limit on how much juice a beam weapon can take, and that's why I'm gonna have to make a phone call concerning a somewhat higher-rated collar; that thing's expensive and let's just say, having it melt while around your neck wouldn't be a pleasant experience."

"She is as impressive as my son claimed." K'tarag'jal remarked with an analytical-looking frown. "A power such as hers cannot be allowed to fall into the wrong hands, my friend."

Harry smirked.

"Trust me on this one, man. Only way anyone gets their dirty little hands on her is over my cold stinking dead body."

"You are a good man, Johnson." K'tarag'jal said, accepting that with a nod and joining him in leaning against the side of the Walker's ute; the suspension creaked in protest. "There are few men in this galaxy whom I would offer the hand of my daughter."

"I know, man, and shit, I'm honoured and all." Harry shook his head. "It's just you've got good kids… its bad enough I've dragged S'tarak'hai down into my world, and never mind your daughters. They're sweet girls; they don't deserve to live _my_ life."

"They are aware of the consequences." K'tarag'jal said, then pursed his lips and glared out into the rain. "Aria in particular is eager to fulfil my side of that agreement. You must remember, my friend, that my adult children are all military, and most of them First Legion; the day they took up the blade they accepted the possible consequences of doing so."

"Aria? Your eldest half-human one, right?" Harry checked.

"Indeed." K'tarag'jal said with a nod.

"Harry, I would like to see you wed to one of K'tarag'jal's daughters." Rialia said. "And it is not just because I wish to see you a part of my family. You are a deadly warrior and you have a follower of truly terrifying power, but you cannot look in every direction at once. Landwarrior First Class Aria Reiana R'hara'tath is a superb soldier, but she regrets her decision to swear the oath; she will never be truly happy in the military, and I hate to see my godchildren suffer. All she wishes for is a husband and a home."

"I'll need to talk to her." Harry said, nodding. "Say, she got any untapped magical potential?"

"Indeed, as do all of my offspring." K'tarag'jal said with a nod. "Like my own, her aura is not of the power output necessary to become a spellwarrior; she is rated at 308.244ctU's per second on the Wolfe scale."

Harry nodded, flicking his thumbnail across his teeth.

"OK, looks like I got a lady to talk to." He said, standing up. "Hey, Hermione? You'd better come in, sit down, and drink a load of water; you're swaying on your feet, and the exertion probably dehydrated you."

--

Hermione looked at her hands. They were shaking.

She was now sat in the R'hara'tath's comfortably appointed drawing room, almost entirely surrounded by gigantic catpeople, being hovered over by Carla, and struggling to get her breath back. Harry was the other side of the room, having a cellular subcomm conversation with someone in Imperial Gothic, a language Hermione was able to recognise but unable to understand.

"That… was _hard_." She said.

"And now I am certain that you are no monster." K'tarag'jal rumbled, his voice alight with a ripple of amusement.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Hermione was now physically exhausted enough (despite her mind belting along at a mile a minute) that she managed to forget how much the massive catman intimidated her.

"Your hands are shaking." The big catman said. "You are drenched in your own sweat. Your pupils are dilated, and your expression closely resembles that of a man who was moments ago just outside the lethal radius of a detonating grenade he himself had thrown. No, child; a monster is never afraid of itself."

The patriarch of the R'hara'tath family strode away, leaving Hermione to chew on that, which she did.

"Spot of shellshock?" Harry asked, sitting down beside her and pulling her into a one-armed embrace.

"I'm scared, Harry." She said, relaxing against the side of him, and finally remembering why she'd missed his comforting presence.

"Keep that fear." Harry advised. "But don't let it rule you. Now you know what you're capable of; that's the biggest difference between you or me and a monkey. We know what we can do; we know we can end a life as easily as turning off a light, and we've got a pretty fucking good idea what that means. Heh. There's this guy I know in New York, cat named Peter Parker, he's a bit of the superhero vigilante type; you know the sort. Well, anyway, his uncle once told him, 'With great power comes great responsibility'. I know I rule your universe, Hermione m'girl, but there's one being who has final authority over your every action – and I've got my arm round her right now."

"How do you do it, Harry? You're so… so unafraid, all the time."

"Wanna know a secret?" Harry asked, grinning sideon at her.

"What?" she asked.

"I feel fear just as much as you do." Harry told her. "Whenever the lead starts flying – that moment when things go South, right when the hammers are dropping – I damn near crap myself. Fear never goes away; you just learn to _deal_ with it, and I'm sorry to say there's only one way of doing _that_. Someone who feels no fear isn't brave; they're mentally ill. Fear is useful stuff; it gives you an edge, puts you on alert, your adrenaline gland kicks in, fight or flight – your body gets ready to do anything and everything necessary to survive. Fear is there to keep you alive, m'girl. It's when you're scared shitless and you still do whatever it takes to keep yourself and your people alive that you're really showing courage. I know what Donald said to you, and I can tell you one thing that's for damn sure; if a student doesn't show a preference, he puts them where they belong. Don't tell me you think it's a goddamned _coincidence_ you're in Gryffindor; when it comes down to it, Donald's message to you when he yelled, 'GRYFFINDOR!' was that you've got the capacity to be even braver than you are intelligent." He snorted. "Considering you're on a par with Steven Hawkings in the brains stakes, that's just a tad unnerving… Y'know, 'courage' and 'bravery' and 'valour' and such-like are such fucking stupid words. It's just a matter of landing up in a bad situation and still getting the job done whether or not you shit your pants."

They lapsed into silence, which was eventually broken by a pretty half-human half-Kenti girl (the one with a cybernetic right arm Hermione had earlier noticed) seating herself opposite Harry.

"Um, hi." The newcomer said.

"Hello yourself." Harry replied; the two of them studied each other for a few moments.

"I am Landwarrior First Class Aria R'hara'tath, Her Radiant Majesty's First Legion." The catgirl finally said, visibly pulling herself together. Harry started paying more attention to her, his eyes scanning her in a slow measuring gaze, and a frown on his face.

"Harry Johnson, Dark Lord of the Sith." Harry replied, extending a hand; Aria immediately accepted the handshake, in the process revealing some familiarity with Western Earther society.

"If you are to accept my proposal, Aria will be your bride." K'tarag'jal remarked in passing, immediately causing Hermione to study the half-Kenti girl, while Harry nodded and grunted.

She was a pretty creature, a little over six feet tall, with a slim whiplash-like frame, skin almost as pale as a Malfoy's, startlingly blue eyes with slitted pupils, and hair of much the same sandy shade as S'tarak'hai and his full siblings. Her Kenti heritage was easily visible in the slightly feline cast of her face, the cat-like dark patch of skin at the tip of her nose, her high-set pointed ears, her tail, her trademark Kenti bony insectile wings, her digitigrade feet, and the faint dusty coat of near-translucent downy white fur that covered every visible scrap of her skin. She was dressed in heavy-duty battledress trousers, combat boots, a sky-blue T-shirt, and combat webbing; she had a compact handgun strapped to each hip, and a fair bit of visible cybernetics standing mute testimony to her having got shot up a few times; her eyes bore telltale vestiges of the thousand yard stare.

She also had a warblade, much like those owned by S'tarak'hai and Harry, strapped across her back.

"I see." Harry muttered. "By the way, that holdout you've got under your left arm? You ought to get a slimmer gun, the Mentler A-PEK is a bit too wide for someone your shape and size to properly conceal."

"You are pretty good." Aria said, looking slightly surprised and impressed.

"The forearm blaster in your right wrist is nice work though." Harry continued, as if she hadn't said anything. "But you'd be better off using high explosive armour piercers in the shoulder-mounted rocket pod, flechette cartridges in that calibre won't do much to anything more than light body armour." The poor catgirl looked sincerely taken aback.

Hermione said nothing, instead angling a bemused sideon glance at Harry as he clammed up; he caught her look, and smirked.

"You did catch the sub-machine gun, didn't you?" Aria asked.

By way of a reply, Harry raised his eyebrows and examined her again. He then frowned.

"Hmm. Where?"

Looking a bit embarrassed, Aria withdrew a slim gun from her right trouser pocket; Harry nodded thoughtfully.

"I'm impressed." he said. "Missed that; I must be getting soft."

They lapsed into silence; it was rather obvious that neither Harry nor Aria had much idea what to say, while Hermione was busy trying to work out why this whole thing was upsetting her.

"I wish to be completely upfront about this." Aria said, finally breaking the uncomfortable silence. "I am not totally certain about this arrangement, but there is a reason I volunteered when Father spoke to my sisters and I."

"Oh?" Harry asked.

Aria nodded, her gaze lapsing into a full-on thousand yard stare.

"It is not easy having a military legend for a father." She said. "Especially when three of my brothers and two of my sisters have won the Order of the Sun. I never really wanted to be a warrior, but it is not like I had a whole lot of choice. 'We expect great things of you, Cadet R'hara'tath'. All my brothers and sisters are in the military, and I have been pushed that way ever since I can remember; we are a military family, it is as simple as that. Do not get me wrong, I am good at being a landwarrior, and sometimes I enjoy it, but it is not what I want to do with my life."

"I get it, Harry's your 'out', isn't he?" Hermione asked.

Aria simply nodded.

"You're aware of my lifestyle?" Harry checked, cocking his head.

"Of course; you are a national hero after all." Aria said. "Which means that you are perfect for a girl like me, assuming you are okay with this whole thing, and I know that is a big assumption, but I am taking long shots here."

"How so?" Harry asked.

"Resigning my commission would dishonour my family." Aria said. "Same goes for skipping out any other way before my twenty years is up, unless I get transferred to the reserves due to a matter of family honour, and that is exactly what a contract of marriage is."

"What's with this whole honour thing?" Hermione asked. "Is it really all that important?"

"Without a shadow of a doubt." Aria said, nodding firmly. "My personal honour can go sing to the winds, but Father is the Supreme Commander of Her Radiant Majesty's Armed Forces and the last time a Supreme Commander was dishonoured the resulting riots caused about seven and a half million fatalities and over nine trillion crowns worth of damage to property… and me breaking the Warrior's Oath would stain the honour of my whole family."

"Oh." Hermione said; she wasn't sure what else to say, given the situation.

"So, what do you want to do with your life then?" Harry asked.

Aria's gaze drifted off into the distance again.

"Good question." She said.

"So… have you been in much combat?" Hermione asked.

Aria touched her warblade's hilt.

"There are only two ways to earn one of these." She said. "You can of course do what Harry did; do something which puts Her Radiant Majesty in your debt. I went with the easy option; after my sixth tour of duty my tally of confirmed kills was automatically checked, and when it came up as more than fifty I was sent the First Legion offer. The selection process was the hardest thing I have ever done."

"What she is not saying is that she holds the highest First Legion admission test scores logged in more than seven millennia." S'tarak'hai remarked, ambling over and taking a seat. "She received a perfect mark; she is only the fifteenth warrior ever to do so."

Aria looked faintly embarrassed.

"Okay, okay, you've convinced me." Harry said, sitting back. "And if I see your bloody father looking smug, I'll deck him."

S'tarak'hai smiled slightly.

"I believe he will merely look relieved." He said. "Welcome to the family, dragon-boy."

Harry gave the big catman a dour look, which S'tarak'hai pointedly ignored; he then turned his attention back to Aria.

"If this is going to work, there's a few things you need to understand." He said. "First off, I never have and never will do the fidelity thing. At the moment I have thirty-seven regular girlfriends; if you've got a problem with that, this ends right now. They're not particularly important, most of them are just warm places to put my dick and I happen to own the other one, but you can like it or you can lump it."

Aria looked completely unconcerned.

"Father has three wives and eighteen concubines." She remarked.

Harry nodded.

"Right, we'll call that one resolved." He stated. "Secondly, I am as your brother was so keen to point out a dragon. Listen up, Hermione; this involves you too. I am in fact an Arcadian-cross weredragon and I just so happen to be descended from the Arcadian queen mother's half-brother. I am the Duke of Senlatha back on Arcadia; I hope you're aware of what that means."

"I know little of Arcadia." Aria admitted.

"Well, the long and the short of it is that Arcadian dragons will view you as my pet, and since a R'hara'tath Kenti, even if half-human, is a fairly impressive pet I'll be expected to show you off at the state functions I have to attend most years." Harry said with a shrug.

"So what does that mean to me?" Aria asked.

Harry snorted.

"You know how much it takes to get your typical Arcer dragon to take a humanic seriously, right?"

"A lot." Aria said with a nod.

Harry nodded again.

"I don't." Hermione pointed out.

Harry repeated the nod.

"Right. Well, put it this way, your typical Arcadian dragon regards humanics pretty much the same as we'd regard a dancing dog. Okay, you might be like, 'Aww, that's cute, and so clever', but you don't _respect_ the dog. You don't regard it as an _equal_. It's just a trained animal."

"… oh." Hermione said.

"Your typical Arcadian noble is even worse." Harry continued. "Arcadian dragons have been the galaxy's number one top predators for close on a billion years; the Queen Mum was hatched before the Old Atlanteans invented the wheel. Guess who the top predators of Arcadian civilisation are? That's right, the nobles. Prince Suza is regarded as a weirdo because he's got a healthy dose of respect for humanics and us Arcer weres. Look, we're talking about people who are so used to being worshipped as gods that they think it's the natural order of things; these bastards make the Malfoys look like Yorkshire farmboys. Arcadian court politics are not fucking pretty; it's every dragon for himself. The game of one-upmanship is deadly serious on Arcadia."

"… so what's that mean for me?" Hermione asked, annoyed at herself for parroting Aria.

Harry smirked.

"Put it this way, m'girl. How'd you fancy helping me get one over the snottiest bunch of upper-class pricks in known space? I've heard of one dragon getting a R'hara'tath for his collection before; you guessed it, good 'ol Suza. But no dragon in written history has ever turned up at a state function with one off the big list o' doom; hell, no dragon has _ever_ got his claws on an Omega-rated weapon before. Those bastards view me as a degenerate half-breed; the only reason they deign to so much as _tolerate_ me is because a certain king claims to approve of me, and when I show up with you two in tow… let's just say that'll cut those fucks down to size."

"What do you mean, an Omega-rated weapon?" Aria squeaked. She'd gone very literally as white as a Snape.

Harry smirked.

"Check the Omega list." He prompted.

Aria's eyes unfocused for a moment in the manner Hermione was accustomed to seeing when people used cyberbrain weblinks, then those pretty blue eyes widened in mute shock.

"… Dal Tarag tar Jal…" the catgirl whispered.

Harry's smirk grew, and he rested a hand on Hermione's shoulder.

"Meet Hermione Allison Granger, codename Omega Five, the most powerful source of thaumatic energy in known space." He said.

"Holy _shit_." Aria said; she'd gone a bit shaky. "Father was right; you play _serious_ hardball."

"It's a dog-eat-dog galaxy out there." Harry said. "Evolution at two hundred lights per hour, and I'm the mean lean selective breeding machine. That's why I carry a pile of big guns, run cyberware that was custom-configured for me by Washu Hakubi, and keep an Omega weapon handy."

Hermione glared at him.

"There's two kinds of mercenary." Harry continued. "The quick and the dead. Well, I've been in this game close on three centuries – you do the math. Your brother thinks I didn't know the plan for this little get-together, but I got brains and I know how to use 'em; I'm perfectly aware Queen Rialia decided she wanted to meet Hermione, and I know for damn sure your old man decided he'd corner me over that marriage contract while I was here. S'tarak'hai was a cat's paw in this." He noted Aria's expression, and more to the point the startled look on her brother's face. "I like to keep myself informed; it's a good way of staying alive. Most of the guys in my line of business got so little trust left in 'em they wouldn't go meet their mother for lunch without backup, leg-work, and at least three evac plans."

"And you're one of them, aren't you Harry?" Hermione said. S'tarak'hai excused himself and went elsewhere, replaced by Ben Chaos.

Harry nodded. "Only thing failure to make sure contacts are for real ever got anyone is _fucked_. Whoever you're dealing with, you do background checks, you read up on 'em, you look for holes and grey areas, because the more careful you are, the longer you'll live."

"Even contacts like the queen of all Kenti, huh?" Bruce asked; he and Alice and Tara had wandered over at some point.

"_Especially_ contacts like the queen of all Kenti." Harry said. "It's the ones at the top you really gotta watch. If someone's in a position of power, there's a good chance they're going to take advantage of it; they'll stop seeing people as people. From the top, the masses look like ants. It's got a habit of turning perfectly decent folks into megalomaniacs."

"How do you guys know her?" Hermione asked. She still felt a bit dazed about all this, and was increasingly upset with herself for being upset about the idea of Harry marrying.

Harry shrugged. "Classified, and it's worth my while not to blow the cover on that one." He said. "You remember I said about the op I met catboy on?"

Hermione nodded.

"Good." Harry said with a smile. "Let's just say I helped bring something back to Kendarat that should never have been taken, and during the aftermath I was given the honour of an audience with the Queen. Figure she liked me or something, feeling's mutual."

"I actually met her down the pub back home." Ben said. "When she was twelve she ran away from home, right? Well, she ended up in New Tasmania." He shrugged. "When Dad finally worked out his fave stripper happened to be the Crown Princess of the Thousand Kingdoms, his expression was an absolute flamin' _picture_, Ryoko's got photos."

"Guess you know what she looks like naked?" Harry checked.

Ben nodded. "Yup, and she's the first girl I ever saw with her togs off." He sighed and shook his head. "She was a lot happier back then… funny how much Tara looks like her, especially when she's naked."

"When have you ever seen Tara naked?" Hermione asked, distracted from her growing funk.

"Remember the gravball victory party?" Harry checked.

"The first half, yeah." Hermione said with a nod.

Harry smirked. "Strip poker. You know those people who absolutely love something but are really shit at it? Tara's like that with poker, I've got photos."

"You would." Hermione muttered, then lapsed into thought while Ben tried to get Harry to show him the naked-Tara photos, much to Tara's amusement.

"Hey Harry." She eventually interrupted.

"Sup?"

"Who's that blue-furred girl who's talking to S'tarak'hai? She looks kinda familiar from somewhere."

Harry glanced over, then laughed.

"You've probably seen her on the news sometime, or maybe in a magazine or some-such." He said. "That's Crown Princess Tarai Riata R'harash'gai, the heir to the throne of the Thousand Kingdoms. She's Zarie's elder sister, and Queen Rialia's first daughter."

"It's amazing how much Tara looks like the Queen and the Crown Princess, isn't it?" Hermione remarked.

"Meh, not really." Harry said with a shrug. "Kendarat's got a population approaching eighteen billion; it's nearly three times the population of Earth, and compared to the total galactic population of Kenti, that's a drop in the bloody bucket. Put it this way, the Thousand Kingdoms control a little over ten billion star systems, with an average per-system population hovering around the nine billion mark. In a population _that_ size, the chances of there being multiple unrelated persons who look like carbon-copies is so good it's barely worth worrying about. Hell, chances are that somewhere in the galaxy there's someone who looks exactly like you and was born within seconds of you. Shit, apart from the eyes I know three guys who look exactly like me, and chances are there's someone out there who's even got eyes matching mine. Then there's Ron; there's a rock band frontman on New Oz who Ron could be the long-lost twin of, and I know a monowheel mechanic on Dachaigh Nuadh who looks exactly like Ben did when he had long hair. The only unusual thing about it is the fact that two people who look so similar have actually met up."

Hermione wasn't looking at Tara at that point, so she didn't notice the funny look the black-furred girl gave Harry. At that moment, the CTMAers were suddenly distracted from this subject by a voice coming from Bruce's back pocket:

"Blink Dog, Blink Dog, Blink Dog, are you on there Bruce? Over." The voice was obviously a teenage boy as it was in that stage of breaking where it abruptly shifts octaves all the time, and he sounded very shook up. Bruce nearly jumped out his skin.

"Blink Dog, Blink Dog, c'mon Bruce. Alice? Anyone? Over."

Bruce blinked several times, then pulled a communications remote – a handheld radio tied into the Blink Dog's subspace comms array – out of said pocket. "You're comin' out the windows Jacen, what's up? Over."

S'tarak'hai came wandering back over, a slight smirk on his face; he replied to Tara's weird look by waggling his eyebrows and looking a bit smug.

"I'm calling a Code Ten, Bruce." The voice said. "Jabba's goons got Mom and Dad and Chewie, and Grandpa's not picking up the comms. Over."

"Roger that Jacen, where's the meet-up? Over." Bruce said, standing up.

"Third belt of Tatooinie, ASAP. Over."

"Roger, we'll be there in ten hours. Blink Dog out."

"What's happening?" Harry asked.

"That was Jacen Solo." Bruce said. "Looks like Jabba the Hutt just fucked with the wrong people."

"A moment, Captain." S'tarak'hai growled; he fished a rolled-up subspace door and a roll of electrical tape out of his jacket.

"So… what's a Code Ten?" Hermione asked.

Bruce glanced over at her.

"Blockade runners stick together." He said. "Fuck with one of us, fuck with all of us – especially when you're fucking with the Grand Duke. Code Ten means someone just went too far, and now every real runner in the galaxy's gonna down tools and sort this thing out."

"Grand Duke?" Hermione blankly asked as Bruce started calling a whole string of assorted ships.

"Captain Han Solo, the Millenium Falcon's owner-operator." Tara explained. "He's the Grand Duke of blockade running; you know that saying about the oldest trick in the book? Well, when it comes to this line of business, Captain Solo wrote the fucking book. The whole Grand Duke thing's a nickname come up with by Captain Malcolm Reynolds because it gets on Captain Solo's nerves, but it's true for all that."

"Oh."

Harry rose to his feet.

"Let's get this show on the road, people." He said.

-- End Chapter --

AN –

If anyone would like to suggest a blockade runner for me to reference next chapter, go for it. I've got the Millenium Falcon, the Serenity, the Ebon Hawk, and the Nebuchadnezzar, at least so far. I can use about ten other ships from whatever sources to name-drop. They should be blockade-running or smuggling ships – any starship living on the very edge of civilisation (and the law) has a place, and things like Matrix hoverships or fictional sea-type ships (or whatever) can be converted over to starships. Long as there's reference material on Wikipedia or some-such, I can use much of anything – even things I've never seen the source material for.

A FEW PRONUNCIATION NOTES

It wouldn't surprise me if a lot of my invented words are getting read wrong by a lot of readers. Whenever I invent a word, I start with the noise it makes, then move on to spelling, and I tend to come up with words there's not really a clear way to spell, not helped by the pronunciation differences between the American and British versions of the English language. So, here's a few notes that'll hopefully help y'all along.

First off, I do not go in for that whole pronouncing-a-letter-like-you're-reciting-the-alphabet thing; if I wanted someone to read something as an 'Ess' noise, I'd write it 'Ess'.

And second off, pretty much any of my invented words that end with 'Ai' end with the same noise, which sounds much like 'Eye' or 'Aye' said fast. I believe there's a Japanese name that is spelt (in the English alphabet) Ai, and is pronounced the same way, though I may be wrong.

Thus, 'Amerai' sounds like someone said 'Hammer eye' very fast and dropped the H at the start of 'Hammer'. It most definitely does not rhyme with 'America'. Incidentally, it's about the oldest of my invented words to still be in use within my writings.

Kenti sounds like someone saying 'Ken tie' as one word; it uses the same 'Aye' noise.

Then there's the Kenti names. All those glottal stops make it look pretty complex, but they're not as bad as they look. You just have to remember the 'Ai Aye' rule, and that the first letter is not said like you're reading out the alphabet. I don't know the 'correct' way to write a pronunciation guide, but if you read catboy's name as 'Suh-tarak-high' you're not going far wrong.

Tara's name, when people call her Tara, is pronounced just like how you'd expect Tara to be pronounced. When catboy's being his usual self and calls her Tarai, the 'Tar' part is pronounced the same as in 'Tara', with that good 'ol Aye noise tagged on the end.

R'hara'tath follows much the same rules. I think 'Ruhara tath' would be about right. Same rules apply to the other Kenti names.

Taragh is said, 'Ta rag'. It follows that 'Taragai' is said, 'Ta rag aye'.

Mentler is said a bit like 'Meant ler'. Probably one of the simplest ones.

Frognorfian is pronounced much like how you'd probably expect; 'Frog norf Ian'.

I'm not really sure how to explain the pronunciation 'Zeurghnorf', it's something I cribbed from a 2 Griffin rant, and did my best to spell. In particular, it's from 2's guns rant; he's on my LJ friends list, so if you're really that bothered you can track it down that way.

Follow the same basic rules all the way through and you won't be going far wrong. Oh, and if you can pronounce 'Frououshtequoo' without trouble, you'll be doing way better than me… I was in a very silly mood when I invented 'em, so I applied a name that's virtually unpronounceable.

Doghead Out.


	9. Chapter 9

It was snowing

**This ain't no self-insert fic.**

**This ain't no slash fic neither.**

**This is Top Dog.**

--

_We are free men_

_Though we are poor_

_We will not bow to masters_

_No nor pay rent to the lords_

_We will not worship_

_The god they serve_

_A god of greed who feeds the rich while poor men starve…_

--

It was snowing.

This wasn't particularly surprising, but the last time Hermione had been on Kendarat, it had been the height of the planet's northern-hemisphere summer. Combined with Kendarat having a somewhat larger axial tilt than Earth, this meant that, the last time she'd been there it had been close to forty Celsius in the shade. This time of the year, R'harash'gai't'rath came within a hundred kilometres of winter-long darkness, while Mount K'rath'han and the Plains of Death upon which the starport's marshalling yards were built were close to sub-artic; although the river valley where the R'hara'taths made their homes was further south, far enough to never see snow, the starport facilities experienced regular snowstorms throughout the winter; one day it could be clear but cold, the next the clouds would dump several feet on the ground to be chewed into slush by the relentless pounding of taxiing spacecraft, snowploughs, starport tugs, freight handling equipment, and passenger carrying vehicles.

And thus Hermione experienced quite a surprise as they arrived in the Blink Dog's wheelhouse, having skipped through the subspace door network and rendered the five-hour drive a five-minute walk; the natural light was stained a cool ice blue as it passed through the downy blanket on the Dog's windscreen.

"Strewth." Bruce remarked. "Bloody shitty weather, mate."

"I'll be coming separately." Harry said.

"What? Why's that, mate?" Bruce asked, slightly startled.

"I'll be making my own way there; see you later. C'mon, Hermione."

And, with that, he withdrew back towards the stairs and the subspace door, ignoring Bruce and Alice prepping the Dog for blast-off while S'tarak'hai used his military status to arrange clearance for emergency VTOL launch. As soon as the subspace door closed behind them, he added, "By ostentatious means. Fucking theatrics – aw well, a dragon's gotta do what a dragon's gotta do, especially when it comes to being incognito and beating hotrods in a race."

"… you what?"

"I'm taking a sneaky work-around I can only use thanks to being a dragon, and doing it'll involve a couple hours sitting around in dragon form." Harry grinned viciously. "Good thing I'll be having flame-roasted Hutt for lunch, they're high-energy food."

"… you're going to EAT a HUTT?!" Hermione had seen holograms of that particular species of flabby vaguely anthropomorphic slug-things.

"Yeah, they taste pretty bad but what the hell, they fill a hole. Besides, seems Jabba's rather into eating people who get on his nerves, so it'd be some poetic justice. And anyway I've got plenty REALLY hot sauce to take the taste away."

"I thought their flesh was like, well, toxic." Hermione said.

"I say again, dragon. You'll find there isn't much of anything I can't digest in my large-and-scaly form. A good example would be Tyranids – they give me the shits. Phronima, there's another example, you wouldn't believe the level of indigestion something with molecular acid for blood gives you, I was laid up for three months after the time I ate one. Hutts give me wind, but they're far from the worst thing I've eaten over the years. Heh, heard Jabba has a pet rancor – never eaten one of those, and I hear tell they taste pretty damn good roasted with a bantha milk glaze."

"Weirdo." Hermione muttered, giving him a mock long-suffering look; he grinned and ruffled her hair.

"By the time the blockade runners arrive in the Tatooinie system, Jabba will be dead and the hostages will be free." Harry continued, closing and locking the subspace door behind them; they were now in the chamber deep within the bowels of his manor wherein he had installed said portal.

"What?" Hermione asked, astonished. "I thought we were going to work with them on this one."

"That's what Bruce thinks." Harry said with a nod. "The fact of the matter is, the son of an old acquaintance of mine spends a lot of between-job time hanging out at Jabba's place, Jabba pays good money. I don't want Boba getting blown to bits, it'd fuck my day right up. I owe his dad, but Jango's been dead for a while, so Boba inherited the debt – that means I owe Boba a few good turns. Besides, he's a consummate professional, and mercs of his calibre – and honour – don't exactly pop up every day."

"Okay, so where do I fit into the plan?" Hermione asked, accepting that with a nod. All she knew of Boba Fett came from the 'Star Wars' movies. She trusted her own instincts about people, and her take on the real Darth Vader (not the one from the movies) was that he was like a funhouse mirror image of the Hollywood version – an implacable foe and as dark as pitch, but honourable and highly protective of the galaxy he regarded as his personal property. An anecdote Harry had told her a while back sprang to mind; he'd been talking about Darth Vader's confrontation with the last surviving old-school Sith Lord, and (according to Harry) Vader had stated that, 'This is my galaxy, and anyone who fucks with it is dead.'

So, despite what she'd seen on her parents' TV, she was more than willing to give Boba Fett a chance.

"You don't." Harry told her. "You're staying here, safe."

"Harry, I want to go with you." She said, hurt.

"No. You're staying here. Do I have to tether you?"

"Harry, please. I'm your most powerful weapon. You might need me."

Harry stopped, grimaced, then gave her an annoyed look.

"You won't like what accompanying me entails." He said, turning his attention back to the way they were going.

"I'll do it." she assured him.

Harry stopped again, looked into her eyes for a moment, then suddenly smiled and ruffled her hair again.

"Thankyou, Hermione." He said. "You'll need to get suitably kitted out; c'mon."

He led her through several passages, with enough direction and floor changes to get her utterly lost, then waved her through a final door.

"Wait for Carla here; she'll be with you shortly and will get you appropriately clad." He said, then left her there, closing and locking the door behind himself.

--

**Disclaimer: Up is a matter of perspective.**

--

**Top Dog: Enter the Fnords**

**Intermission 1: Harry Johnson and the Lunatic Scientist**

**A Doghead13 / United Galaxies fanfic**

**Written & produced by Calum J 'Doghead13' Wallace**

**Preread by KuroNeko**

**Hosted by Studio Asynjor**

**Brought to you by Hairy Scottish Git Productions, GMBH**

**This is not a drill.**

--

**Chapter 9: Riding with the Dragon.**

**(In which our heroine gets a look at Arcadian life.)**

It was rally season.

Rallies are an important part of the calendar to true bikers; few things are as 'biker' as a few hundred hairy loons, pissed in a field with their mates, dressed in awful clothes, listening to some awful din they call music, surrounded by impractical outlandish vehicles, and flipping up two fingers at the world.

And Jeff Granger was a dyed-in-the-wool biker. He'd got his first bike – a tatty old BSA-Bantam 125 – at seventeen to commute to college. He'd spent five years nursing the old banger along on a student's bursary, met his future wife in uni, and they'd graduated head of class together.

In the early days, Alice had never quite understood Jeff's mania for snarling two-wheeled monstrosities, but she accepted it with an air of quiet amusement, then he'd got her to get her bike license and she too had fallen in love with barely-legal chunks of roaring rusting steel and chrome. These days, they both rode bikes that were designed in a pub and built in a shed – just the way choppers were supposed to be.

But there was one thing that was screwing with Jeff's head as he rolled into the rally field – there should have been a third person with them, either on the back of one of their bikes, or on her own bike. Their daughter.

He was still cursing the day that McGonagall woman had turned up to lure his daughter – his perfect little girl – into that crazy shadow world. In a few short months, she'd turned from his oddly earnest genius daughter into a complete stranger – a quiet shadow, always distracted, only coming alive when that tall man with the lizard-like eyes and the expression of carefully-controlled psychosis was around. It was frightening how completely she was under the bastard's thumb – that episode when Hermione had responded to being told to shut up by going temporarily mute had shaken Jeff to the core.

He'd asked his brother-in-law about that Harry Johnson character, and Crazy Stan had gone quiet and worried.

As he pulled up beside where the Hells Hippies were setting up their tents, Jeff swore to himself he'd get to the bottom of this.

Whatever it took.

--

When Carla arrived, she was accompanied by the Puma twins, and seemed a bit harried. As for 'appropriately clad', it seemed to involve four things. Visible (and in fact flagrant) expense, corsets, an absolute lack of modesty, and chains.

By the time Carla was satisfied with how Hermione and the Puma twins looked (and began to make herself look 'suitable') Hermione was dressed in a low-necklined backless dress slit up the sides nearly to armpit level and composed of a translucent material vaguely reminiscent of silk that stuck to her in some places and wafted about in others, bejewelled dangly things clipped to her nipples, spike-heeled white leather sandals held in place by criss-crossed straps reaching to mid-thigh and buckled each time they crossed, an uncomfortably tight and exceedingly rigid corset primarily of precious metals and gems, myriad blatantly costly necklaces, a set of gem-encrusted precious-metal bracers that almost completely engulfed her forearms and were connected by three short lengths of gold-sheathed gem-covered heavy-duty chain (making them about the most mind-bogglingly expensive set of handcuffs Hermione had ever seen) 'leg irons' that matched the 'handcuffs', an outer shell locked around her collar to match the stupidly costly restraints on her wrists and ankles but leave the 'property of Lord Stormclaw' markings exposed, and a ten-foot chain leash of similar stupidly ornate construction.

All put together, it was the most utterly ludicrous set of 'clothing' she had ever seen.

The Puma twins were dressed in outfits (if you can call them that) which matched that worn by Hermione, and Carla was putting on a fourth matching overblown get-up. Hermione amused herself by trying to guesstimate the total value of what she was currently wearing; she still didn't have much of an idea by the time Carla was done, so she gave it up and made a mental note to ask Harry about it later on as she followed the other three out the room, Carla carrying her own leash and holding the ends of the other three's leashes, all four of them clanking as they walked.

She decided to say how ridiculous she found all this. So she did.

"This is completely stupid."

"Isn't it just?" Carla agreed.

"The boss got this stuff made up for when he wants to play big bad dragon to the hilt." One of the twins said; the two of them then gave each other devious looks, and pounced.

"You look _sooo_ tasty like this…" Both catgirls purred, rubbing up against Hermione and earning themselves an amused you-weirdoes look from Carla as the girl genius from Bristol went as red as a Weasely's hair in response to Uni licking her cheek.

"Naughty catgirls, no getting your leashes tangled." Carla said; the Puma twins stuck their tongues out at her and stopped trying to make Hermione even more embarrassed.

Getting herself back under control and decidedly annoyed with the matching book-end catgirls, Hermione once more paid attention to her surroundings and stopped for a moment, blinking bemusedly.

Instead of the crisp white plaster with tasteful and understatedly expensive finishings of the mansion's hallways, they were inside a distinctly Victorian-looking and oddly nautical wood-panelled corridor, all held together by polished brass and old-school square-headed copper nails; the floor was carpeted (wine-red, deep pile) instead of being surfaced with highly polished hardwood, and the light was provided by glowing crystal orbs suspended by brass chains along the centre of the ceiling.

It all looked like it had crawled out of a Victorian science-fiction novel.

"They really had got you distracted, hadn't they?" Carla amusedly asked, giving her a knowing look. "Come on."

"Er, where are we?" Hermione asked.

"Onboard Master's sky-barge." Carla told her, rotating the great brass wheel in the centre of the wood-panelled brass-bound door at the end of the corridor. "Just exiting the shipboard end of the bridge boarding passage."

The door opened with a clunk and woosh of air coming out, and they stepped out into a room easily as big as the Blink Dog's cavernous cargo bay.

Hermione once again stopped dead in her tracks, this time awed at what she was seeing.

The front wall, side walls and ceiling were composed of hundreds of glass panels perhaps three feet across, connected by brass; the centre of the ceiling held a great golden stained glass Arcadian sigil composed of thousands and thousands of segments no bigger than Hermione's hand. The front of the room was like a starship's bridge as envisaged by Jules Verne; great brass-rimmed screens and racks of brass analogue dials formed the consoles, the control yokes were smaller versions of an old-school wooden handle-rimmed ship's wheel, the crew station seats had wrought-iron frames and were covered in plush red velvet, and even the yaw pedals looked like they came from something made before 1890. Outside the windows, she could see glass-domed point-defence turrets crewed by people in what looked like a cross between First World War airman's clothes and Victorian spacesuits; out the front windows stretched a slab of what seemed to be smooth wooden planking composed of strips the width of ice lolly sticks, stretching far enough that Hermione couldn't begin to estimate it's length – until the perspective clicked and she realised that those planks were about the width of a large truck, whereupon she defaulted to being gobsmacked.

She turned her head to take in the rest of this incredible vessel, and was thrown into shocked awe again by what she saw. In the middle rear of the room, with a wood-panelled wall at it's back, was a dais you could have parked three tractor-trucks on, raised perhaps a foot from the general level of the floor and covered by puffy red cushioning; and in the middle of it was a massive mound of gold and gems, upon which Harry, in his dragon form, was laying. Young ladies clad in variants of Hermione's current get-up (but without the chains) were hurrying around, and a couple of dozen girls (with those chains) were tethered to the dais, but Hermione was barely aware of them as she was too busy goggling at Harry.

She'd only seen him in dragon form a couple of times before, maybe three times tops. On each prior occasion, it had been an impromptu thing, such as when he shifted forms to bawl out a martinet of an official shortly before their departure from Dachaigh Nuadh after having dropped off the Morgan family at Washu's place. Likewise, on all three occasions his dragon form had ended up wearing some kind of utilitarian black rubberized plastic combat webbing she wasn't sure where had come from.

What he was wearing now was definitely neither utilitarian nor rubberized plastic, though admittedly it was largely black. It was extremely ornate, seemed to be primarily composed of some kind of enormously thick leather, and was detailed with what had to be more than a metric ton of gemstones and precious metals.

Then she noticed the pair of handguns the size of labor rifles, and the katana that looked to hold enough steel to make a truck. They were not ornate, though admittedly the giant 'pistols' (perhaps 'howitzers' would be a better name for them?) were gold-plated and had grips that looked to be made from some form of ivory-like stuff, presumably tooth-of-exceedingly-large-hungry-thing-that-lost, while the sword had a hilt clad in what looked to be pretty much the entire skin of a large shark.

Pulling herself out of her daze, she followed Carla and the Puma twins over to the dais, where one of the (presumably) crew girls helped her up.

"Hey, Hermione." Harry said, showing off a mouthful of unnervingly large knife-like metallic teeth as he grinned at her. "You look impressed."

"What is this thing?" she asked, gesturing at the vast baroque machine around them as she seated herself. "It's incredible!"

Harry chuckled as Carla attached Hermione's leash to an anchor point concealed within the cushions; she'd already tethered herself and the Puma twins.

"She's an Arcadian starship." Harry said. "Pretty damned expensive one, too. She was given to me by the King a long time ago. He claims she's a reward for something I did in his past but my future, but he won't elaborate. Anyway, she'll only make fifty-seven lights per hour at full warp, but she's got a few tricks up her sleeve – she may be slow, but she's a Q-ship." He turned his attention to the scantily-clad woman at what had to be a commanding officer's podium. "Maria, as soon as you're ready."

"I hear and obey, Master." The woman at the podium said, bowing to him. She picked up a brass cage-like thing on the end of a thick cable, which Hermione realised was a microphone as the woman's voice echoed from speakers hidden in the corners of the room.

"Retract docking tubes." She commanded.

"Aye-aye." One of the others said. "Docking tube retraction initiated. Completion in thirty seconds from mark… Mark."

"Stand by to cast off."

"Aye-aye, standing by."

"Docking tubes retracted.

"Cast off now."

"Aye-aye, mooring lines released."

"Atmospheric engines forwards, two knotts."

"Aye-aye, atmospheric engines forwards at two knotts."

"Then as soon as we're clear of the slip…"

"Aye-aye… slips cleared."

"Up bubble ten degrees. Bring atmospheric engines to full throttle, and inform me as soon as we reach ten thousand feet altitude."

"Aye-aye, Captain."

"I'm amazed you got all this set up in what, maybe half an hour?" Hermione mused, continuing to be a bit boggled by her surroundings.

"I didn't." Harry told her. "For me, it's a bit under a year since last time we saw each other. How'd you think I got a suitable outfit your size on such short notice? I got it made up about six months ago, as soon as my past self uploaded your measurements to my mainframe. Hey, and by the way Hermione, I'm afraid you're going to have to call me 'master' instead of using my name until we're done with this job."

"Harry, I'm not sure I'm cool with that."

"Hermione, you will only call me 'Master' until we are done with this job, and you will do so at least once each time you speak." Harry ordered, in his dead-level do-this voice.

"Master, I am not- rrrrgh! What'd you do that for?" Hermione spluttered, struggling to her feet.

"Because we're here under one of my alternative identities." Harry told her. "In the here and now, I am a notorious special agent by the name of Lord Feran Deathblade operating to protect Arcadian interests and usually known as 'The Ghost Dragon' due to my deceptive ability to vanish without a trace. Outside this room, there are few enough people who know Feran Deathblade s actually me that I could count 'em on one hand, and wouldn't even need to use all my fingers. If you were to slip up and call me Harry in earshot of, say, Leia Solo, there would be all kinds of shit break loose."

"You could have told me that before you used that damn compulsion on me, Master." Hermione said, a tad hurt; she had in fact been trying to call him 'Harry' in that phrase, but couldn't.

Harry looked a bit taken aback.

"You know, I hate it when I fuck up." He admitted, sounding contrite.

"Master, from now on, please, well, just tell me why _before_ you use that thing on me, okay?" Hermione requested, sitting back down. "I mean, that way I'll know you've got a _reason_ even if I think it's a bad one." A sheepish dragon? Now she really had seen it all.

"Hermione m'girl, I'd like you to understand that I'll only ever use that thing either when it's important or if you somehow manage to piss me off." Harry said, resting his immense head so his cheek was against her side. "Even if you don't understand why, you can rest assured that I'll always have a damn good reason."

She leaned against the side of his head, and stared pensively at the ceiling.

"Master…" she suddenly said, once again annoyed at her failure to manage to call him Harry.

"Sup?"

"Isn't it a bit of a dead giveaway, launching from your mansion, Master?" she asked, peering up at the eye on that side of his head.

Said eye gave her a weird look.

"Hermione, are you telling me you didn't notice the subspace door?" he asked, sounding slightly surprised.

"… uhh, what subspace door, Master?"

"The one between the third floor hallway and the docking bay." Harry elaborated. "The big one with armed guards that looks like a blast door."

"… no, Master. That is, I didn't notice it." Hermione admitted.

"How the hell did you get so distracted?"

"The Puma twins were being, er, um, well… embarrassing, Master."

"Ah. So Anna and Uni were being Anna and Uni." Harry said with an amused snort that caused a puff of smoke to curl from his nostrils. "Well, cut a long story short, we're on a planet called Reach, it belongs to a Norkrondoo company that's fairly well-known to be a front for the Royal Arcadian Secret Service. It's one of the places I've got subspace connections to my manor set up, makes it easier to pinch-hit swap between being Harry and being Feran."

"I see, Master." By this time, annoying as it was, Hermione had resigned herself to calling Harry 'Master' all the time for the next few hours.

"Altitude ten thousand feet and climbing. Rate of climb fifty feet per second. Air speed two hundred knotts." The helmswoman reported.

"Master?" the woman who was apparently the captain asked.

"Commence the Umbra insertion any time you like, Maria." Harry replied.

"All hands, rig for Umbral transition." The captain ordered. Hermione watched with growing bewilderment as the bridge became a hive of activity.

"What's going on, Master?" she asked. "I thought Spirit Plane travel was limited to sublight speeds?" She knew that 'Umbra' was an old-school term for the Spirit Plane.

"This ship is fitted with something that doesn't officially exist." Harry told her. "It's called a Mulveyer compensator. It counteracts the way non-material spaces interfere with the operation of warp drive. Think of it as the ultimate cloaking device."

"Umbral insertion in thirty seconds from mark. Mark." The captain said.

"Master, why didn't you use this ship to go to Azeroth?" Hermione asked, thinking through the ramifications. The Spirit Plane is not linear in size as compared to the material plane; it depends on the amount of material life in that area of 'reality'. Thus, the Sol system's Spirit Plane is approximately a billion kilometres across, but it's only a couple million kilometres (within the Spirit Plane) from there to the edge of the next inhabited star system, in actual fact well over a light year from Earth.

"Two reasons." Harry told her. "Reason one; let's imagine a hypothetical situation based on historic fact. Imagine it's 1942 and you're an OSS operative attempting to escape from Hitler's Fortress Europe. You're carrying the most dangerous box on Earth; it contains a pair of Kenti-made one-kiloton mass-energy conversion bombs that Hitler intended to launch as V2 warheads at London. You've made it to a poorly-guarded fishing village on the north coast of France, and now there's a choice of two boats for you to steal to cross those tantalising few miles of water between you and safety in England. One boat is a beautiful luxury yacht, in superb condition, but she's rather slow. The other is a battered, filth-covered old twin-engined speedboat, and you've had a look and you think her engines can take the strain and get you from France to England in less than a quarter of the time. Which boat do you choose?"

"The speedboat, Master." Hermione said.

"Exactly." Harry said. "This ship is gorgeous, luxurious, heavily-armoured, and substantially heavier armed than she looks. But she's slow, she responds to her helm sluggishly, and frankly she handles like an extremely overweight cow. In the air, she's got a maximum speed of a touch over two hundred knotts; in space, she can only just accelerate at fifty gravities, and at that rate she shakes like a leaf in a shatterstorm – two minutes and she'd be getting shear damage to her spine. She's a ship-of-the-line disguised as an exceedingly expensive luxury yacht; a blockade-runner she ain't. Anyway, the second reason not to take her to Azeroth is related to her ability to dive into the Spirit Plane. The simple fact she can transfer herself to the Spirit Plane makes her a spiritually-active object, and let's put it this way; the blast that collapsed subspace around the Azeroth Cluster did something exceedingly nasty to the Spirit Plane in the Cluster, to the point that if you bring anything spiritually active within five hundred lights of the dead zone it is going to be destroyed or worse. Nobody knows what's going on in there; everything that has ever tried to enter that part of the Spirit Plane has been utterly destroyed or infested with homicidal things that make phronima look like the Easter bunny, and every shaman who has ever tried to peek in has gone gibbering insane to the point they are only able to twitch and scream things like 'Iai Iai Cthulu phthangg!'. No thanks."

"Captain, we are rigged for transistion."

"Initiate transistion."

"Roger, transistion initiated. Umbral dive in five… four… three… two… one…"

Reality broke in a wave across the massive cloud-clipper's bow; the fabric of the universe itself surged across her foredecks as she drove through the veil separating the material from the spiritual at two hundred knotts, her engine's fourteen massive pistons hammering back and forth as her props chewed at the air, high-pressure steam blasting from her smokestacks with a report like a machine gun as it drew hot air and smoke through her boilers, and in moments they were in the Spirit Plane.

"… Zero." The helmswoman finished.

"Up bubble eighty degrees. Atmospheric engines to full steam ahead. Set course ten zero zero eight two three by five nine nine."

"Aye-aye, up bubble eighty degrees. Atmospheric engines at full steam ahead. Course laid in and locked, ten zero zero eight two three by five nine nine."

"Warp ignition in ten seconds from mark. Mark."

"Ten. Nine. Eight. Seven. Six. Five. Four. Three. Two. One. Zero. Igniting warp engines."

"All hands, stand by for jump to warp-speed."

"Warp engines ignited and idling. Ready to jump."

"All hands reporting ready for superluminal velocity, Captain."

"Master, we are ready to jump to superluminal speeds."

Harry lifted his head and smiled.

"Take us away." He commanded. "Maximum warp."

"Warp engines to flank speed." The captain ordered.

"Roger, warp engines to one hundred ten percent military."

The ship shook. In realspace, when you break the light barrier, light itself seems to go insane due to things red or blue shifting. Here in the Spirit Plane, it was different. Light itself behaves differently, travelling in Planck time, in other words instantaneously; the physics are different enough that they will tear a normal warp drive to bits the moment it begins projecting a warp field.

But Harry's sky-barge's warp engines had something normal Cochrane spacetime-warp distortion field generators do not have. A piece of technology that does not officially exist; a way of altering the field projected by a warp generator to compensate for the differing physics.

So, instead of her engine room blowing itself to bits as the warp coil shattered into submolecular particles, the sky-barge seemed to gather herself for an instant, then flung herself outsystem, the universe going into fast-forwards around her.

"We are away and proceeding on course, Master. Our estimated time of arrival in the Tatooinie system is four hours, seventeen minutes, and thirty-two seconds."

"Excellent, tell me as soon as we're insystem."

"Your wish is my command, Master."

"This is incredible, Master." Hermione said, rolling over onto her back to stare out through the stained-glass roof at the stars that were whipping past above them.

"Ain't it just? Heh, not like normal warp drive. You can actually see shit flying past the ship, see how fast we're going… and everything's packed way closer together than in realspace. We're running a warp drive capable of fifty-seven light per hour at full blast, and our realspace velocity equates to almost six thousand lights per hour due to the amount of deadspace we're skipping. That star that just whipped past real close? That's Betelgeuse, and it's actually about a hundred lights from the realspace equivalent of our position. In here, it was less than half a light away"

"So, how are we gonna go see the Hutt, Master?"

"Well, first off we'll check if we can draw the bastard into the Spirit Plane." Harry told her. "He suddenly goes pif from realspace, I have dinner, we come stomping into his lair and tell his goons that all of his bases are belong to us. That probably won't work, chances are the bastard's warded his place against that particular type of spiritual tampering. However, it's a darn sight harder to ward against things coming from the Spirit Plane into realspace. So, if we can't kidnap Jabba, we'll materialise this dais right there in his throne room, blast his goons into little splattery bits, I eat Jabba, we grab his assorted slaves and prisoners, Anna and Uni trash his hideout's ward-stones, we get the hell out, End Of Story. If that doesn't work, we'll just bring the ship into realspace and I'll go kick the door down the old-fashioned way. You're here because, as you rightly pointed out, your presence means we've got the fifth biggest boom-stick in the known universe, so if Jabba causes any problems you can just materialise a black hole inside his skull. Bye-bye brain."

"… You've thought this through, haven't you Master?"

"It pays to be prepared."

--

"H'llo. Yer Jeff Granger, aye?"

Jeff looked up from the beer he'd been nursing, finding himself confronted by a small mountain of wild grey hair and ragged black leather.

"That's me." He said.

"Name's Genma." The huge grey-haired wild-bearded man grunted, extending a meaty paw, which Jeff dubiously shook. "Genma Saotome. Heard ya wuz askin' around about Harry Johnson, somethin' ta do wiv yer daughter, aye?"

"Yeah." Jeff confirmed. "He's done _something_ to my daughter. She's changed, and not in a good way – it's like she's not even alive unless that bastard's around."

Genma grunted and nodded. "I know. Figger I'd better fill ya in on what's really goin' on." He glared at the far side of the beer tent. "Harry Johnson, or Lord Stormclaw, or Darth Venger, or Slade Morley, or whatever he's callin' hisself today, he's older'n his date a' birth'd indicate. Guy's a Time Lord, see? Graduated Prydonia Academy wiv 'onners, been all up an' down th' time-stream – been every fuckin' where an' every fuckin' when. All in, he's gotta be summat like three hunnert an' twenny by now, even though 'is seventeenth birthday's next week. That's what he gets fer drink-drivin' a Tardis. He's a big-shot merc – done some serious hard-hittin' jobs, like back in 1945 it wuz him what whacked Kami Asinara fer me great-grandpaw. He ain't no fuckin' hero – guy's a borderline psychotic wiv fuckin' post-traumatic stress disorder." Another glare, this time in the general direction of an unfortunate Rich Urban Biker, who scarpered. "But sometimes – like now – a hero ain't what this fuckin' galaxy needs. Sometimes, like now, what this fuckin' galaxy needs is a stone-cold killer. I's a-gonna give ya a lil' history lesson, an' mebbe after it ya'll unnerstand where Stormclaw's comin' from an why, if ya got mebbe half th' sense th' gods gave a mad March hare, yer gonna do yer damndest not ta piss that fuckin' headcase off."

"What the hell's that supposed to mean?" Jeff growled.

"Easy, son." Genma growled back. "Don't shoot th' messenger. First thing ya gotta unnerstand is, Harry Johnson ain't human. Hell, ain't a shred a' him what's human. His ole man wuz what we call a Selak – think a' him as what ya get if ya cross five feet a' Canuck bad attitude wiv a whirlwind fulla chainsaws. His ole dear's a mix a' Deladarian elf, Amerai, Arcadian dragon, Ole Atlantean, Juraiain, Vulcan an' Sidhe on her ole man's sidea her family, an' her ole dear wuz plain ol' borin' Earther human. Thing bein', Earther human genes ain't that tough, rilly – they get overridden way easy. Like if ya take a werewolf, an' gie him a human fer a wife, the bairns are gonna be more werewolves, odds is – an' if they ain't, they's a-gonna come out some sorta other shapeshifter, prolly a werecat a' some sort. Same goes if ya take a werewolf an' gie her a human fer a husband. An' outta Harry Johnson's genetic makeup, th' dragon's th' toughest genes outta the bunch. He ain't pure dragon, an' never will be – but he's a dragon fer aw that. When that man sees gold, he gotten an urge tae make it his own. An' when he sees a lassie what'd make his bairns strong, he does what a dragon gotta do – he makes her his own. Ya ken them stories about dragons kidnappin' damsels? That's weredragons fer ya. Take it fra' one who knows aw too well – when a were's instincts kick in, they kick in hard, an' there ain't nae force in the galaxy can stop 'em, least a' all us poor bloody weres. That's what's happened ta yer bairn, an' believe ya me, there ain't no place in this universe or no other where she'd be safer, cuz th' only way anyone does her any harm is over his cold dead stinkin' corpse – an' believe ya me, he'd take a helluva lotta killin'."

"Some worthless fuck raped her last year." Jeff bluntly stated.

"Ouch." Genma grunted. "Trust me on this much, son – that stupid bastard won't'a gone easy inta that final goodnight. Ya harm a dragon's lass, ya just written yerself a one-way ticket ta Hell. Ain't nothin' an' nobody can stop a dragon on th' warpath, an' there ain't no surer way ta make a dragon mad'n hurtin' onea his lil' ladies. It's like jumpin' in fronta a freight train – dumb shit only got hisself ta blame fer th' way he willa got _run down_."

--

The harsh snarl of machine guns awoke Hermione from her slumber; the fact she'd managed to doze off despite her less-than-comfortable apparel about ten minutes after they'd left Reach underlined how tired she'd been after her usage of that formerly-theoretical spell at the R'hara'tath place.

Opening her eyes and wondering about the assorted areas of unfamiliar tightness, she found herself looking at a ceiling she briefly failed to remember; she tried to sit up, but the chains between her wrists brought her up short; lifting her hands to see what was constricting them, she lay there and looked slightly freaked out for a moment, then rolled over onto her side while briefly examining herself, wondering what all the gunfire was about, and being a bit disturbed by her current get-up.

Her roll brought Anna and Uni into her field of vision. The two catgirls were currently forming a part of a heap of about five girls, all looking positively blissed out.

With a mental feeling a bit like that fizzing noise a drinks can makes when you open it, Hermione shook off the last of the sleep-induced fog and remembered where she was and why she was 'dressed' and chained like some kind of perverted fantasy harem girl.

The autocannon turrets around the front of the bridge were firing, hosing arcing lines of tracer bullets into the void around the ship, which was somewhat less void-like than last time she'd looked; there was an ocean of sand visible beneath the ship, rising into rocky bluffs to the left, stretching to a startlingly close horizon to the right and ahead. Impossibly blue skies above them, without a cloud in sight, and several visible suns, only one of which was big enough to be properly called a sun; the rest were more like daylight stars, sun-bright specks of light. Harry was still in dragon form, and halfway upright, eyes flickering back and forth, hands twitching, and wings half unfurled.

"What's happening, Master?" Hermione asked, managing to sit up this time.

"Banes." Harry said. "Winged scrags, should have guessed this area would be crawling with that kind of crap. One of the tailgunners took down a fucking nexus crawler about a minute ago – good thing I got Albrecht to sanctify those thirty mike-mikes before the dumb bastard got his head blown off… Stop getting freaked out; the hull's armour can handle a few scrags."

"Then why are you so jumpy, Master?"

"Because there's a firefight going on and I'm not holding a pistol grip." Harry explained, the 'Duh!' almost audible in his voice.

A tremendous explosion shook the ship, throwing everyone around as the shipboard gravity glitched; the co-pilot was thrown into the windshield, and slumped in a bloody heap beside one of the navigation positions. From her angle, Hermione could see several red lights appear on the captain's console; an alarm started yowling.

"Son-of-a… What the Hell was that?"

"A defiler bane just got a bead on us, Master!" the captain gasped. "It came out of nowhere! Our main engines are crippled – we're losing lift! Holy shit, we're going down!"

"Emergency transistion to realspace, NOW!" Harry roared.

Not waiting for relay from the captain, the helmswoman threw a lever up. There was another floor-shaking explosion, and, with a horrible wrenching feeling, reality seemed to suck itself through the eye of a needle.

Suddenly, the batwinged things were gone.

Then the plasma weapon fire started going past the bridge.

"Full power to lift engines!" the captain barked. "Keep her level as you can."

"Aye-aye, Captain, I'm trying, I'm trying… it's no good, she's listing to port!"

"Switch the attitude thrusters to manual and give me the helm." Harry snapped, abruptly shifting to humanic form as he headed full-belt for the copilot's seat. To Hermione's brief but immense surprise, his dragon clothing (or was it some sort of insanely fancy combat webbing?) vanished, replaced by his usual gear – trenchcoat, boots, black jeans, cross-belts, muscle-T.

"Aye, Master." The ship lurched again as Harry cleared the copilot's seat with a flying leap, his left hand clamping down on the helm as his right slapped against the centre console's racks of throttles.

"Rate of descent fifty metres a second, Master!" the captain reported.

Harry trod on a pedal, ramming it clean to the floor. His right hand flickered across a bank of switches, and a the air in the bridge took on a slick greasy feel as he struggled with the helm.

"Hermione. Levitation charm. On the ship. Keep her level and stop her fall. NOW." he barked, and Hermione was moving before he'd finished speaking.

She closed her eyes, extending her senses outwards, feeling for the ship's spine frame.

There. A knot of red-painted girders, the mist of ages hanging heavily around them; they almost felt as if they were alive.

She gripped, wrapping her mind and aura around that great duranium frame, and tried to hold it steady.

The ship shuddered.

"Rate of descent slowing. Forty metres a second… Thirty… Twenty… Fifteen… Ten… Eight… Climbing, two metres a second… now we're descending again, five per second…"

"Maria, enough with the running commentary." Harry snapped. "Gently, Hermione. Keep her steady."

"I'm doing my best, Master."

"Don't try to hold her – hold her." Harry growled. "Find the centre of the planet's mass and use that for reference."

The ship steadied.

"Atta girl. Good work, kiddo – keep it up. Maria, deploy the landing gear and find somewhere for Hermione to set us down. She can't hold the ship up forever."

"Actually Master, I think I can." Hermione said, still keeping ninety-nine percent of her attention on holding the ancient starship. "She feels as light as a feather – the main problem is keeping her steady."

"Landing gear deployed and locked. Lady Hermione, there's a reasonably level area of dunes at twenty degrees, range eight kilometres. Can you 'see' it?"

"… I think so."

Harry swung back out the seat, and began checking over the co-pilot, letting out a quiet relieved sigh after a moment.

"Someone get Sheena down to medbay." He ordered.

"Yes, Master." Two of the assorted flunkies chorused, going for the bridge's emergency equipment lockers, from which they unearthed a stretcher.

"Is she gonna be okay, Master?" the pilot asked.

"She's got herself her first battle-scar." Harry told her, giving her a reassuring touch on the shoulder. "Nasty gash on her scalp, and she'll have a bitch of a headache when she comes round, but it's non-critical. Maria, what's the status on our boiler-room?"

"Boilers are reporting condition yellow, Master. We'll have to start venting steam before long as turbine trains B and E are fouled, but turbine trains A, C and D are running smoothly."

"The engine room. How bad?"

"All gravity systems are offline. The main engines aren't there any more, but the warp coil appears to be undamaged. Our atmospheric engines are still good to go, but they'll be precious little good until we get gravity back, Master."

"Understood."

"I think I see where you want me to set her down." Hermione said. "Do we have any sort of inertial compensation left?"

"That's a negative, Lady Hermione. Our STERAG depended on the same gravity systems that gave us lift and shipboard gravity."

"Ah. Um, I'm not sure if I'll be able to move her over there without pancaking everything onboard." Hermione admitted.

Harry frowned, walking back over to the dais.

"Maria? What's our altitude?"

"Six hundred twelve metres beneath keel, Master."

"Emergency open bridge airlock."

"Yes, Master."

A wall of hot, dry air flooded into the bridge.

"Hermione. Once I'm outside the ship, I'll fly to the position I want you to set her down. I want you to use my position as a reference to move the ship. You're to keep it slow and gentle, like you're moving a fragile glass sculpture, and maintain your position relative to me until Maria tells you we've landed. Can you do that for me?"

"I think so, Master. I guess, compared to my aura, the ship is kinda fragile, isn't it?" Hermione admitted.

"Don't think so, know so. You'll do fine." Harry said, stroking her hair for a moment, then he was gone, sprinting towards the open airlock. His draconic presence blossomed across Hermione's awareness, and then she was holding the ship in position flanking him; the decks bounced and juddered as his ponderous wingbeats cut through the air, and every member of the bridge crew held their breath.

"We're landed, Lady Hermione. You can let go now."

Hermione opened her eyes, withdrawing her awareness back into herself, just in time to see Harry striding back up the bridge airlock corridor.

"Captain's ship." He said, giving Hermione a brief one-armed hug.. "You're better at running damage-control teams than me, Maria; just keep Jabba's thugs the fuck away from me and let me know when we've got gravity back online, and if we can't, let me know what you need to do the job." He pulled a key out of his trenchcoat and unlocked Hermione's tether from her collar, then shifted back to dragon form and started rooting around in the dragon-size locker at the back of the bridge.

"Goddamnit! Someone get me a jetcutter." He snapped.

"Yes, Master." Varied flunkies chorused, running off.

"What's the plan now, Master?" Hermione asked.

"Simple. Jabba owns this planet. About the only people Hutts treat as equals are Arcadian dragons. This just became a hostile takeover; only way I'm likely to get my goddamned sky-barge off this goddamned sand-ball is if this goddamned sand-ball is stamped, 'Property: Lord Stormclaw'. Looks like I'm getting Hutt for lunch right enough."

"Where do I fit in, Master?" Hermione asked.

"Do what you want; you just saved the ship." Harry told her, distributing varied dragon-size weapons around his person.

"I want to go with you, Master." Hermione told him.

Harry froze for a moment, then peered under his wing at her, a startlingly human cocky boyish grin spreading across his face.

"Heh… that's my girl." He said, and grabbed a complicated-looking leather harness out of the locker. This he tossed to Hermione before throwing another two matching sets at the Puma twins, who were somehow still asleep. "Carla, give her a hand putting that on."

"What is it, Master?" Hermione asked.

"That straps round you, then attaches to the kit I'm wearing via a dragon-sized quick-release latch." Harry said, slamming the locker and holstering a gigantic pistol that must have had a calibre close to two metres. He then shifted back to humanic form (his gear once again swapping over) and proceeded to wake the Puma twins up by the simple expedient of kicking them. He then detached their tethers from the deckplates, and attached them to Hermione's collar before unstrapping his E-Mags from his hips and handing one holstered gun to each catgirl; then he turned and handed Hermione her H&K, which she accepted with a glad sound. She'd been feeling kinda naked without it.

"Anna. Uni. If Jabba's thugs harm a hair in Hermione's head, I will skin you alive. Understood?" he warned, his voice deadly calm.

"… yes, Master." They chorused, giving Hermione measured looks.

"Good. Now get those damned slave pouches on, we haven't got all day." He instructed, removing the chains from each girl's arms and legs.

It didn't take that long for Carla to get the leather body harness onto Hermione, and not long after the Puma twins were wearing identical harnesses. Harry critically examined each, then nodded, shifted to dragon form, and attached the three girls to the broad straps that passed across his upper chest just below his throat.

He padded down the corridor to the bridge airlock.

"Okay, people. Let's get this show on the road." He said, and leapt.

--

Several thousand light years away, on Earth, a wooden trunk rose to it's numerous feet.

Anyone who'd seen it would have said that the Luggage was definitely frowning. This particular Luggage was quite a young Luggage, and was still a mite tetchy about the ribbing it had received from the other Luggages after the first time it allowed it's mistress to get in trouble without going to set things straight the old-fashioned way.

It contemplated the subspace door on Hermione Granger's wall for a few minutes, then barged into it.

Subspace doors are typically swing doors, and this one was no exception. It crashed open, allowing the Luggage to come stomping through.

The Luggage spent a moment reorienting itself, then went galloping down the hallway of subspace doors, selected one, put it's lid down, and charged.

It came crashing out onto the transit decks of the LSS-28289 _Coyote's Armpit_, a thirty-year-old _Angel Girl_-class destroyer that just so happened to be laying over in Tatooinie orbit.

Once again, the Luggage paused to reorient itself, then it went stomping over to the smallcraft bay scattering League Marines left and right, kicked in the airlock of the _Lambda_-class shuttle _Mu_, and went rampaging towards the flight deck.

Arriving in the shuttle's wheelhouse, it critically examined the flight controls, gripped the keyrod with it's lid, fired the shuttle up, then firmly kicked the sublight throttles wide open.

Like all her sister ships, the _Coyote's Armpit_ used an atmospheric containment field to keep her smallcraft bay inhabitable; thus there was nothing to impede the unscheduled launch of the _Mu_, and the Luggage thoughtfully dialled the shields up to full power as it booted at the flightstick, aiming the shuttle's nose for the nearby planet.

When a Luggage gets tetchy, things get broken.

-- End Chapter --

AN –

A Q-ship is a warship disguised as a merchant vessel. It's a term come up with during the Second World War; the Allies' Q-ships were effectively destroyers disguised as freighters, used for convoy protection.

The _Shen-Long_'s point defence turrets (which are arranged in clusters along her flanks, along her keel, at her bow, around her main engines and around her bridge tower) are armed with sets of quad-mounted 30mm-calibre chainguns, each similar to what you'd find in the turret of an IVF. They are not rotary vulcan cannons; each has a single barrel, but they are mounted so that fire from each group of four intersects at a half kilometre range. These are not the ship's offensive weapons (those are fitted in disguised pop-up mounts elsewhere on the ship) but are rather designed for close-in defensive fire, typically at missiles or fightercraft. I'd originally slated them as .50 calibre, but as KuroNeko quite rightly pointed out, that'd be a bit light to do the job.

Oh, and the name 'Shen-Long'? Chinese. If I'm remembering correctly, it means 'Spirit Dragon'. It seemed appropriate, and is a name that will be shared by an Amazon.

I had a frickin' nightmare with this chapter – this is in fact the fourth version, two out of the previous three having existed only in fragmented form.

Aw well, it's here now. Dare say I'll have a bit of a bugger with the next chapter too as Harry, having gone off half-cocked, is committing the cardinal sin of underestimating Jabba the Hutt – only I'm not sure exactly HOW.

Oh, and the mess of blockade runners? Next chapter.

Cheers,

Cal.


	10. Chapter 10

**This ain't no self-insert fic.**

**This ain't no slash fic neither.**

**This is Top Dog.**

-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-

_We are free men_

_Though we are poor_

_We will not bow to masters_

_No nor pay rent to the lords_

_We will not worship_

_The god they serve_

_A god of greed who feeds the rich while poor men starve…_

-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-

It all went well at first. Harry flew fast and low, staying below the arcs of Jabba's anti-aircraft defences; quick salvoes of gunfire from the Puma twins cut the guards outside the Hutt's front door down like grass, and then Harry set the girls down on the bloodstained sand; the Puma twins hastened forwards, sprayed explosive gel on the doors in breeching patterns, and stepped smartly back before thumbing the detonators; with a tremendous metallic crash, the huge armoured doors tipped inwards, lifting great clouds of dust.

Swiftly they headed inside, the twins' guns intermittently barking as they cut down any opposition, and in a very short time they were within Jabba's throne room.

And that was when something struck Hermione sharply in the upper chest, and from her perspective consciousness winked out like a light.

"Son-of-a!" Harry muttered, moving to stand over the unconscious girl as the Puma twins hastened to check her; the two catgirls let out identical sighs of relief as they found she was alive but unconscious.

"Trank dart, Master." Uni reported.

"Cover her." Harry said, his voice calm. "You are going to regret that, Jabba."

The Hutt, completely unperturbed, let out a roar of laughter - a deep, booming, 'Ho, ho, ho' that would have sounded right in place coming from Father Christmas, drawing the girl he had chained to his throne in short on her leash as he did so; and Harry realised he recognised the girl.

Leia Solo, though he couldn't say he'd ever seen her dressed in that little before. Nice view though, Han was a lucky man.

"Oh, ho, ho, ho! Hoya Stormclaw! Yu-a dumba bugga aintcha? Ho, ho, ho! Jabba earna lotta wonga tu-a bringa Stormclaw hea. Ho, ho, ho, ho!"

"The Great Jabba said-" the monkey-like being that was sat on Jabba's throne began, but Harry cut it off with a glare.

"Meea speeka Hutta, munki-bwa." he said. "Hoya Jabba. Yu-a gimmea Leia anna Han anna thera Wookie ora yu-a dedda Hutta, yu-a reeda meea?."

"Ho, ho, ho, ho! Yu-a wanna Leia? Yu-a shuuta Jabba, Leia dedda tu-a! Oh, ho, ho, ho, ho, ho! Yu-a gesta riva, Rava!"

Harry's eyes went like slits as a massive red head poked out of around the immense door behind the Hutt gangster's throne.

"Stormclaw." the immense red dragon hissed, pacing into the throneroom. "I knew you'd be here."

"Well, well, well. Rava Flametongue." Harry blandly stated, drawing his howitzer-like pistols. "So either you survived a close encounter with an anti-matter charge, or they kicked you out of Hell. Still earning a living molesting goats?

"Silence!" The red dragon snarled, stalking forwards. "You killed my youngest son and my favourite wife. Now it's your turn to kiss the dust, bastard!"

"I know a vicar in Sutherland who can prove otherwise." Harry calmly replied. Too calmly. Anyone who knew him could tell you he was about to go off the handle; his voice was now calm in the same way as an armed Claymore mine. "You let your son try to eat my eldest daughter and you had her mother murdered - and what goes around comes around. Turnabout has always been regarded as fair play."

"What care I for degenerate filth? Nobody harms my people! **Nobody**! Now die, you son-of-a-bitch!"

And Rava flung himself at Harry, his left forelimb slamming across and sending the immense pistols crashing across the floor, where they stove a wall in; Jabba winced slightly at the damage, then shrugged.

This job was earning him easily enough for the repairs. Hell, he could rebuild his palace from the ground up on the down-payment.

Then again, he mused, as the pair of massive beasts rolled around on the floor, snapping and snarling and lashing at each other with their claws, perhaps it would be somewhat safer if he wasn't in a room with two brawling Arcadian dragons; he tapped a switch on his wristband and, with a whine of hydraulics, his throne withdrew itself through the floor.

Taking that as a good suggestion, his lackies (those who hadn't been gunned down by the Puma twins) hastily withdrew into the bowels of the palace. Except for Boba Fett.

Boba had realised exactly who Feran Deathblade really was as soon as he'd heard Jabba call the black-scaled dragon 'Stormclaw'. As a bounty hunter, Boba Fett was one of the best - his only peers were Irene 'Rally' Vincent, and the cybernetic powerhouse known only as Gally - and that was no mistake. He always made sure to know what he was going up against, he trained constantly, he read all the intel, and he never went after a mark he wasn't sure he could take. All too many bounty-hunters treated the hunt as a game, and would do stupid shit like evening the odds to make it more 'fun'; not Boba. He was in it for the cash, and because it was the only way of earning a living he had the skills (and patience) for. Okay, so he could have joined a colony and grubbed in the dirt - sod that, he'd have gone off the handle in months. But dragons were out of his league and he knew it - especially dragons called Slade Morley, because people who screwed with Slade Morley died. Period.

He was beginning to regret firing the trank dart that had rendered Morley's exceedingly dangerous pet unconscious - and he was exceedingly glad that all it had done was knock her out. This way, there was a chance he might live long enough to persuade Morely to drop the matter.

And so he skirted round the two fighting dragons, tossed a vial of trank antidote to Uni Puma, and legged it for where he'd parked his gunship.

It was high time he was someplace else.

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**Disclaimer: It's only my fault on Tuesdays.**

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**Top Dog: Enter the Fnords**

**Intermission 1: Harry Johnson and the Lunatic Scientist**

**A Doghead13 / United Galaxies fanfic**

**Written & produced by Calum J 'Doghead13' Wallace**

**Preread by the CaerAzkaban Yahoo group**

**Brought to you by Hairy Scottish Git Productions, GMBH**

**This is not a drill.**

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**Chapter 10: The Hunt.**

**(In which our hero tries to have a show-down with a Hutt.)**

The first words spoken aboard the LSS-17332 Blink Dog after she dropped below the light barrier on the edges of Tattooinie's third belt came from S'tarak'hai R'hara'tath, who was currently manning the long-range scanners because, when Harry took off, he'd smelt a rat.

The hulking catman knew Harry Johnson pretty damn well, for all he'd only known Harry for three years. The two of them had saved each other's lives more than once; S'tarak'hai had seen Harry at his best and worst, and he knew one thing for damned certain. The weredragon mercenary had an unfortunate habit of going off half-cocked and taking off without his backup in an attempt to deal with any problem on his own. The guy was a born loose-cannon.

And then there was Tara's presence on the Blink Dog's bridge. Harry's relationship with Tara had began by Harry being paid to protect the inky-furred girl, and then she had - as she inevitably did - wormed her way into Harry's list of _his_ people, become his friend, and his reasons to be maniac in protecting her had more than quadrupled on the spot. The only thing more important to Harry Johnson than hard cash was his friends.

Like any dragon, he'd do anything for the people he regarded as a part of his hoard - anything at all, especially if it prevented them getting into danger - and that category included the crew of the Blink Dog and every friend Harry had ever made. S'tarak'hai knew he'd never be Harry's equal as a warrior, and the implications frightened him. The weredragon was worth ten S'tarak'hai's, yet Harry would unhesitatingly jump in front of a missile barrage for most of the people currently aboard the battered old DX-32 dropship.

And so he had his eyes glued to the sensor screen as the ship decelerated.

"I am reading unusual energy outputs from Tattooinie." he said.

"What sort of energy outputs, mate?" Ben asked. There was another man the big catman valued above and beyond his own life. Benjamin J Chaos was patently insane in a way that, oddly, worked. He was mad as a hatter, but S'tarak'hai knew perfectly well that the man was trustworthy unto the utmost degree, and damn nearly lethal in close-quarters combat. He ought to be; he was after all the galaxy's least-predictable Jedi Knight.

"Multiple heavy weapons discharges." S'tarak'hai said. "And there is significant Spirit Plane resonance in the source area. Captain, I suggest we close in and take a closer look at this."

"Agreed." Bruce Walker said, nodding. "Sis, take us to four light-secs from Tattooinie; let's check stuff out."

"Rightey dokey skip, bro." Alice Walker replied, rolling the helm over to port.

"Blink Dog, Blink Dog, Blink Dog. This is the Ebon Hawk, Revan speaking. Where are you lot off to? Over." A woman's voice, cool and detached, and bearing just a hint of sarcasm.

Bruce immediately grabbed the comms.

"Me sensor officer's reading something weird dirtside." he said. "We're gonna go scope it out. Over."

"Roger that, Bruce. Unless anything comes up, we'll see you at the party. Ebon Hawk out."

Bruce put the mike back on the hook, and all was silent aboard the Dog until they were floating above Tattooinie.

"It appears that there is a substantial dust-up in progress down there." S'tarak'hai rumbled, giving the sensor screen a highly doubtful look.

Bruce nodded, peering round the big catman's shoulder. "No shit mate. Crikey, that's the first time I've seen an Arcadian yacht down in the dirt."

This provoked an immediate reaction from Ben Chaos; being (just) tall enough to do so, he peered over S'tarak'hai's other shoulder, just as the hulking Kenti spoke again. "She is the IAS-27739 Shen-Long, home port Jeskan on Arcadia. Registered owner-operator, Lord Feran Deathblade. I understand he is affiliated with the Royal Arcadian Intelligence Service." Something was tickling on the edge of S'tarak'hai's memory.

"Bruce, take us down." Ben said. "That bloody idiot's gone and jumped the gun."

"What are you on about, Ben mate?" Alice asked.

"Hardly anyone knows it, but Feran Deathblade is one of Harry's identities." Ben explained, causing S'tarak'hai to recall what he'd been struggling for - a piece of conjecture from Department 44 proposing exactly that. "The Shen-Long's a Q-ship given him by the Dragon King. Take us down - the daft bastard's gone off half-cocked again... when the bloody hell is he gonna stop taking off without his backup?"

"Same time as the Emperor gets out his throne." Tara muttered, warranting her a couple of odd looks from Ben and S'tarak'hai; exactly where she'd picked up that particular piece of Old Atlantean invective was anyone's guess.

"Gotcha Ben mate." Alice said, swinging the stick over to starboard and opening the sublight throttles; the constant low rumble from the Dog's engines grew to a deep-throated bellow. "Here we go..."

"All runners, this is the Blink Dog, Bruce speaking. This is a Code Nine emergency - we've got friendlies in the shit dirstide. Put the hammer down and follow us in to the Dee Zed. Over." Bruce broadcast.

"Blink Dog, this is the Serenity. Message received and understood. Over." The owner of the voice wouldn't have sounded out of place in the Old West, and the message came right along with a stream of flickering inbound jump-flashes.

"Roger that Mal, see you cobbers on the ground. Over."

"Zis ist Seeadler, ve har readink hyu loud unt clear. Ve har right un hyur back door unt ready tu hunt, ja? Unt ovar to hyu, Keptin Valker." The voice was arguably female, but sounded more like the speaker was a wild animal with an Eastern European accent as thick as cement.

"Roger that, Jenka. Good to see you crew rollin' out. Over."

"Bruce, this is the Millenium Falcon and we got your six. What the Hell's going on down there? There's too much metallic dust and thermal radiation in the air for our sensors to cope. Over." Jacen's voice was accompanied by the sound of someone clouting a monitor and, in a voice that just had to be Jaden, coming out with some exceptionally nasty Th'lingon HoI invective that her mother most definitely would not have approved of but, summed up, meant 'Work, you stupid piece of crap.'

"Looks like a dragon I know decided to get this job done himself and bit off more than he can chew, Jacen. Over."

"This is the Yamato. We're hard behind you, Blink Dog. Over." This voice had the crisp note of a military officer, making it sound distinctly out of place among the assorted redneck space-truckers they'd been hearing from.

"Roger that, Okita. Glad to see you. Over"

"This is the Ebon Hawk. We'll be about a minute ten behind you - save a few for us. Over."

"Ah, ten-four on that Lord Revan. We'll see what we can do. Over."

"Blink Dog, be advised, this is the Nebachudnezzar. We're about fifty thousand kays off your port bow and vectoring to draft in behind you. Oh, and Neo just took a step outside - I gather he's going down the fun way. Over." Although in letter-perfect English that would have got an approving nod from a Cambridge professor, this man's voice had a faint trace of a Harlem accent.

"And that's a big ten-four, Morpheus mate. Be advised yourself, we'll be punching afterburners so don't get too close to our tail-pipes. Over."

"Megaera speaking. I'm ten on the floor, weapons free and ready to keep Archie quiet. C'mon over." This voice, while being definitely feminine, was completely unearthly; she sounded like how you'd expect a goddess to talk if you'd never met one, if, that is, the goddess in question used a lot of trucker slang.

"Glad to hear it; strikes me things down there are gonna get hot as fuck. Over."

"This is the Normandy. We've got your six, Ebon Hawk. See you on the ground in a few, folks. Over." A laid-back, cheeful, and very American voice.

"Nightstalker here; see you homies dirtside. Over." A voice that wouldn't have sounded out of place coming from a gangsta rapper fresh out the hood.

"This is Edison Trent comin' atcha loud aaand proud from the Friction Weasel, I got a bay full of heat-seekers and I'm ready to keep the skies clear. C'mon." This voice was pure deep-south redneck white-trash, and probably Texan to boot.

"Defiant here, Sisko speaking. We're pulling into formation with you, Ebon Hawk, Normandy. Over." He sounded like he took things too seriously.

"Roger that and thanks, Benjy. Tell the Klingon to get his Big Scary Sharp Thing ready. Over."

"Ten-four on that, Ebon Hawk. Oh, and Worf says 'Ka'ai Kassai'. Over."

"Nightstalker, you are obscuring my portside infinite repeaters. C'mon over."

"Roger that Megaera. We're boosting half a K up, that help? Over."

"Ten-four and thanks, Nightstalker. C'mon over."

"WooHOO! Express elevator to Hell - GOIN' DOWN! C'mon."

"Do us a favour and keep that crap off the air, Friction Weasel. Over."

"Ahh, that's a big ten-four, Yamato. C'mon."

"Pipe down and fly, homeboy. Over."

"Bite me, Nightstalker. C'mon."

"Trent, don't encourage the vampire. You won't like the result. C'mon over."

"Kiss my ass, Megaera. Over."

"I wasn't talking about you, I was talking about your right-hand-psycho. C'mon over."

"Hoooo Leeee Fooook, did you see that? The whole damn planetary defence grid just lit up - kick 'em in the guts! Over."

"Roger that, Nebachudnezzar." Bruce said. "Megaera, you fancy laying down some suppressive fire? Over.

"Ten-four, Bruce. Turning down bubble ten degrees, I'm ready to splash some missiles. C'mon over."

"Yamoto here, any ground sites open up, we'll take a pot-shot with the quake-maker. Over."

"WooHOO! I love this shit - moving to intercept anything they scramble. C'mon."

And down towards the planet the blockade runners powered, engines on the red-line and weapons hot, fighters rising to meet them.

S'tarak'hai smiled grimly to himself. The fury of half a galaxy was falling on Tattooinie – and he almost felt sorry for the poor bastards stuck underneath that hammer.

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Dragons are, on the whole, large and extremely tough. Thus it was that, as the assorted blockade runners plunged into the upper regions of Tattooinie's atmosphere, Rava and Harry were still very involved in trying to rip each other limb-from-limb while Jabba continued attempting to marshal his lackeys and mercs into succeeding in securing Harry's force-landed ship and assorted slaves.

The duo of dragons had been at a tactical impasse for some time now, and Rava had finally got the upper hand; he had Harry pinned, and was just manoeuvring himself into position to literally bite Harry's head off.

"This is where you get yours, you son-of-a-bitch!" Rava hissed.

At that exact moment, the sole unscathed side wall to Jabba's throne room caved in with a tremendous crash, and a squat boxy object came ploughing clean through the resulting pile of rubble. It was more-or-less rectangular, and looked a bit like an old-fashioned brass-bound steamer trunk perched on hundreds and hundreds of tiny little legs; it was visibly streaked with patterns of soot that looked to be from heavy lasers, and it dripped malevolence from every inch.

It was in fact sufficiently weird and unexpected that it momentarily distract Flametongue from biting Harry's throat out; the red-scaled dragon stared blankly at this unwanted interloper, which was completely unlike anything he had ever seen before.

"What in the galaxy..." he said. Then he screamed, because Harry had just wormed round and bit the bigger dragon's left hand off.

The Luggage - which was currently incredibly pissed off, as well as being hungry - marched straight past where Harry was now doing repeated sideways rolls away from the berserk red dragon and towards where his howitzers were laying. It completely ignored the battle of the titans, simply pausing to bite Flametongue's toes when the red dragon stepped on it, as it stormed over to where the Puma twins, still chained to a very unconscious Hermione, were trying to fend off a trio of Gammoreans who were rather insistently attempting to 'secure' the trio of girls; the presence of several empty magazines, small craters, and splatterings of unpleasant pork-scented stuff reminiscent of chunky salsa, was an apt demonstration of just how many of the barely-sentient pig-men had failed in that endeavour by the time the twin catgirls ran their ammo dry.

Very few dragons practise using their hindpaws for much beyond standing on, despite their having opposable big toes; Harry was an exception. One of his wilder lunges skittered the gigantic six-shooter towards his left hindpaw, so he grabbed it with his foot, flipped over with a sudden smirk as the massive weapon's smartgun circuits posted to his cybernetic link and, landing flat on his back with his leg straight-arming the six-gun at Flametongue, squeezed the trigger with his toe.

The vastly upscaled Smith&Wesson clone was chambered to fire rounds of the sort usually used by the turrets of wet-navy battleships. It's duranium structure was so over-engineered that it could take ammunition propelled by a charge of K-Hexa-5, the most powerful conventional explosives ever made stable enough for use as firearms propellant; the result was that the 350mm-calibre armour-piercing delayed-fuse artillery shell was travelling at nearly seven times the speed of sound when it cleared the massive revolver's muzzle.

In other words, there was an earth-shaking roar, the gigantic handgun spat an immense fireball, and Rava Flametongue's head exploded, raining sizzling chunks of white-hot gore across the room, several of which the Luggage snatched out the air with it's lid and gleefully gobbled.

"Eat that, fuckbreath." Harry muttered, pushing himself upright as he transferred the smoking gun to a forelimb. "Ahh shit that stings."

The Luggage, having finished eating the three unfortunate pig-men, belched loudly, embarrasedly shuffled it's feet, then gave Harry a wooden look that seemed to say, 'Okay, what now?'

"Gimme a chance, I gotta finish regrowing these scales... Jesus, you have no idea how much this stings. Well, the bastard really knew how to use his damn claws, that's for sure... goddamnit, goddamnit, goddamnit. Goddamned Flametongue. Bastard should have stayed dead the last time."

Retrieving his other gun and annoyedly tying the damaged parts of his webbing back together, Harry turned his attention to the three girls.

"How is she?" he asked.

"She's been tranked, Master." Uni said. "MF283 di-iodide, I think. Fett lobbed me this - I think it's the antidote."

"At least, it smells like it, Master." Anna provided, recovering her E-Mag.

Harry nodded, yanking his sword out of where it had got stuck in the ceiling. "Right." he said, collecting a pouch that had become detached from his webbing; he set it down and clicked the snap open, whereupon, with a hiss of hydraulics, it unfolded into the equipment rack he carried whenever he was going out into the field in dragon form accompanied by one or more of his girls.

The twins nodded, immediately getting the idea; Uni started restocking her ammunition (and grabbed a boltgun) while Anna collected a medkit and started properly checking Hermione over.

"It's MF283 di-iodide right enough, Master." she said. "I'm just calculating the antidote dosage."

"Good girl." Harry said, replacing the revolver shell he'd used. "Oi, you." This last was addressed at the Luggage, which he gave a poke.

It turned and seemed to contemplate him. Having ascertained that it's mistress was out of danger (and having had some fresh pork to eat into the bargain) it was somewhat less pissy than beforehand, so it merely did it's best to glare at him instead of trying to bite his leg off.

"Any idea where Jabba is?"

The Luggage continued glaring at him, in as much as something without facial expression can be said to glare.

"Ooog... what happened?" Hermione asked, sounding a bit dazed as she pushed herself to a sitting position, immediately gaining herself the attention of both Harry and the Luggage, which promptly came stomping over and critically examined her for any blemishes; finding none, it gave Harry a wooden look that screamed, 'Okay, buster. You're forgiven - for now.'

"You got tranked." Harry said. "Jabba did a bunk, and the bastard father of the worthless little fuck who bit Setsuna's arm off tried to eat my face."

"... right. I guess we'll get into that lot later, huh? How'd the Luggage get here?"

"Screwed if I know." Harry said with a shrug. "It came smashing headlong through that wall a couple minutes ago and saved my ass. Flametongue fucking had me, then your Luggage distracted him and, well, I managed to get out his grip and get my six-gun."

"Oha, yu-a nokka-offa Rava, heya?" Jabba's voice boomed from a concealed speaker, and portculises crashed down, sealing off every available entrance to the room - even the tunnel the Luggage had ploughed, the angry trunk had taken several passages between ramming through walls. "Yu-a costa Jabba lotta wonga! Yu-a meeta meea petta! Dia lika bugga!"

"Watta Jabba talka bowta?" Harry blankly asked.

Booming laughter and the grinding of hydraulics was the only forthcoming reply; Uni frowned, glancing at the auspex she had mounted in her bolter's side rail.

"RANCOR!" she gasped. "Master, the fucking rancor's coming!"

Harry's muttered response didn't reassure anyone.

"Oh holy shit..."

He turned to the Luggage, pointing.

"You. Open that door if you want Hermione to live."

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Sand erupted from the dunes in two-hundred-foot fountains, lifted by VTOL turbine blasts, as the Blink Dog's wheels hit the ground. The ramp had crashed down before the great clouds of flying dirt had time to fall, and a solitary Mentler Sarvek military utility truck came roaring down out the hotrod starship's hold, more sand flying as it's six knobbly tyres bit into the ground.

At the controls, S'tarak'hai was driving hunched over forwards, foot on the floor, right hand on the wheel, left on the gearshift, left index finger poised on clutch*, and a light snarl on his face. Ben Chaos was riding shotgun, his left hand lightly resting on the doorhandle, ready to bale out at a moment's notice, while the centre seat was occupied by S'tarak'hai's half-sister Aria, who was standing up, her head and shoulders poking out the hatch in the roof, a set of ballistic goggles over her eyes, and her hands on the roof-mounted A-DRKK grav machine gun; half the rest of the CTMA, S'tarak'hai's triplet sisters, and a couple other R'hara'tath siblings were in the back of the truck, grim-faced and checking weapons.

Even as the Sarvek began tearing across the sands, other blockade runners were disgorging surface vehicles. From where he sat, S'tarak'hai could see a dilapidated colony truck erupting from the still-moving Serenity's hold; he couldn't make out who was behind the primitive behemoth's wheel, but he could clearly see a man he recognised from a wanted poster leaning out the passenger's window with an absurdly large auto-shotgun. Clouds of dust visible in the Sarvek's side mirrors delineated other vehicles, and then there was the Millennium Falcon; it seemed the Solo twins had passed up on either of them going out on their looted speederbikes in favour of just taking the whole damn ship right down, skids-in-the-dirt, and using the Falcon's two turrets to blast anything that tried to slow the rescue party down.

Not that anyone was currently paying them a lot of attention. Over to the southwest near the force-landed Arcadian yacht, it was a whole different story; from the flashes, fireballs, smoke columns and sprays of beamer fire it looked almost like an all-out war was going on over there.

The truck's roof-mounted machine gun roared into life a split second after the massive catman saw the first inbound skiff; a civilian hoverjeep armed with a single auto-beamer on the roll-over cage, a bit like a stupidly expensive and ostentatious version of a typical colonial military patrol vehicle. It burst with a dazzling flash as it's powerpacks went up. Stupid amateurs thought they looked good riding around in an unarmoured open-topped flier, when in actual fact they were sitting ducks against any sort of real military force.

"We have company, people. Over." he said.

"Ist so, Herr R'hara'tath. Ve see zem. Unt over to hyu." Came Jenka's amused voice. That Jaeger fucking psycho was riding a creature like an overgrown cybernetically-augmented bear with inbuilt guns, while her lunatic cohorts were cramming a civilian four-wheel-drive pickup (fitted with farmer armour and unnecessarily large automatic weapons) that was barely able to stay upright on the loose sand, and never mind go in a straight line. Though their marksmanship was piss-poor, the Jaegers were putting a hell of a lot of railgun slugs in the general direction of the enemy, so they'd probably hit a few in the process.

"Any of you homies noticed how these fuckers seem to be about as tough as wet shit-house paper? Over." Whoever had the comms in the Nighstalker's shore tender (a black Hummer currently laden with heavily-armed vampire-hunters) chipped in.

"Reminds me of early-mark TIE fighters; this is a piece of piss. C'mon."

That was of course when they saw the first grav-tank. A shell slammed into the ground close enough to the Yamoto's shore tender to turn the eight-wheeled armoured carrier completely upside-down.

A heavy sigh came across the comms.

"You just _had _to say it, didn't you Trent? Over." Mal Reynolds complained.

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* Piston-engined Kenti ground vehicles have their clutch lever mounted on the gearshift stick rather than being operated by a pedal. Their gearshifts are inevitably sequential; pull clutch in, push shift stick forwards one notch, release clutch, you've changed up. Note that automatic gearboxes are almost a 'lost' technology in the Thousand Kingdoms as, in those few roles in which they still use wheeled or tracked vehicles, a manual gearshift is advantageous.

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The door that had sealed off the route further into Jabba's palace from the throne room was a six-foot-thick solid duranium blast door that had once seen service as an exterior cargo airlock door on a warship.

The Luggage was a steamer trunk, five feet long by three high and three deep, constructed from sapient pearwood. It tipped the scales at a little under the weight of a large man, and under normal circumstances it would have the physical strength of that large man.

Hermione's Luggage, however, was an exception. Artefacts constructed from sapient pearwood and properly bound to their owner get their strength and resilience from their owner's aura; Rincewind's Luggage, as an example, is all but unstoppable due to deriving it's strength from something as important to magic itself as the number zero is to mathematics. Hermione's Luggage, on the other hand, was gifted with a bit-share of the power of an exploding star.

Therefore it should come as no surprise that, when the Luggage hit the blast door, the blast door was ripped out of it's fixings and thrown fifty feet down the corridor beyond, impacting and cratering the end wall. The aperture that this left was a little too small for a large adult Arcadian dragon, so Harry shifted back to human form before hastening into the tunnel, closely following Hermione and the Puma twins.

He wasn't quite fast enough. An overly-long arm grabbed him and hurled him across the throne-room; the rancor had arrived.

His strangulated noise made Hermione spin round, whereupon she promptly found herself looking a very large and very ugly vaguely-humanoid monster in the face. By this time, the Puma twins were already shooting at it.

She reacted.

Her hands went back, down, then forwards and up, power building around them, and words came wrenching out of her throat even as a charge like Thor's own lightning bolt came bursting off her knuckles:

"ELECTRON RAM!"

The air seemed to split with a sound like thunder as the massive high-tension high-voltage spark crossed the unnervingly narrow gap between her and the rancor, hitting the beast with enough electricity that, if you hit an M1 tank with the same, it's ammo would cook off even as it welded itself into a solid tank-shaped chunk of metal; the rancor yowled like a half-strangled monkey and went backflipping across the somewhat battered throne-room as all it's muscles contracted, thus giving Harry enough time to kick off the wall and come sprinting back over to the corridor, hauling a railgun out of his trenchcoat as he came.

However, the Luggage was still hungry and angry, and didn't feel like giving that annoying dragon the pleasure. It had already been advancing on the rancor when Hermione threw the galaxy's most powerful lightning spell at the brute; by the time Harry was spinning round, getting ready to fire, the homicidal animate trunk had latched onto the rancor's arm and was madly munching away, ignoring the way the beast was flailing around.

Hermione was quite surprised to find herself being given the 'You-what-the-fuck?' look by Harry. The one she all too often gave him.

"Don't ask me." she said. "I guess the Luggage was hungry."

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Meanwhile, thirty stories below, Jabba was engaging in the fine art of making a hasty departure; he'd just completed a short note.

"Yu-a givva dissa tu-a Stormclaw, ora Jabba eeta yu. Yu-a reeda Jabba?" the Hutt growled, brandishing an envelope, which Leia warily accepted.

"I read you." she sighed, wishing she had the chance to strangulate the bastard.

Jabba nodded. "Hoya Leia, Jabba thanka yu."

And, with that, he ate Salacious Crumb, hopped off his throne, and went waddling over to the waiting starship.

"Jabba getta outta hea." he fired over his shoulder. "Seea yu abowta!"

"Bastard."

"Jabba knowa vicca whoa canna dissapruva datta. Layta!"

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Ben Chaos was worried. They'd made it this far – not without damage, two of the Jaegers were dead, the Yamato's shore tender was a funeral pyre, the Nebuchadnezzar had been forced to peel away with a sizeable hole torn in her port bow, and the Normandy's shore tender was smouldering away in the sand with it's front axle blown off – but they'd pretty thoroughly trounced the portion of Jabba's ground forces that'd moved to intercept them.

The dunes they'd crossed were littered with shattered airskiffs and wrecked gravtanks, staining the sky with the filthy black smoke pouring from their burning stores; all in, he figured they'd just converted around twelve billion New Aussie dollars worth of hardware into so much scrap – but the sky in the direction of that down-in-the-dirt Arcadian yacht was still being lit by the flash of explosions and streams of gunfire, with a sound like distant thunder.

As he'd expected, the main doors to Jabba's palace had been blown clean off, and someone had gunned down a hell of a lot of guards. The marsksmanship wasn't precise enough for it to be Harry, but there was plenty of E-Mag shell casings and expended magazines littered around, along with the occasional 9mm shell with crystal-clear H&K extractor marks, and the occasional slagged patch, presumably from dragon's breath.

But it was quiet in here. Too quiet. No gunfire, no crashing, no explosions – even the corpses had finished dripping.

He, S'tarak'hai, Neo (a rather unexceptional looking chap in a black trenchcoat, who just happened to be Kryptonian) and Jenka (a female Jaeger, short and slightly stocky with grey skin, yellow eyes, large amounts of ragged grey hair and purple clothing) moved cautiously forwards, followed by a large number of armed blockade runners and R'hara'tath siblings, checking each alcove for the expected ambush and finding none.

Entering what had to have been Jabba's throne room, they were met with two incredible sights; a very dead red-scaled Arcadian dragon, and a Luggage in the process of devouring the lower half of a rancor.

"Fuck me." Neo remarked.

"Bloody Hell, mate." Ben muttered, taking a closer look at the dead dragon. "That's Rava bloody Flametongue... he was supposed to have been dead for millennia..."

"Eet looks lak somevun put on ein hell of ein show." Jenka commented, peering critically at the swathe of thoroughly-splattered Gammoreans near the main entry passage.

"What I want to know is what the bloody hell Hermione's Luggage is doing here." Tara stated, angling a thumb at where the animate trunk was happily munching away on a twitching rancor leg.

"That is property of Granger?" S'tarak'hai rumbled, peering cautiously at the Luggage.

"Yeah. See, her name's engraved on that brass plate on the lid."

"We'd better start searching for Han and his family." Morpheus – a tall and completely bald black man – said. "Spread out, everyone."

There was a lot of nodding and people did exactly that.

-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-

At about the same moment as Ben was gawking at the remnants of the rancor, Harry, Hermione and the Puma twins were just getting set to blow the door off Jabba's bunker, having traced the lift shaft from his throne room; the twins stepped smartly back, and with a thunderous detonation that must have echoed through the whole complex, the door's attachment points pretty much ceased to exist; a moment later, the whole thing tipped in with another tremendous BANG.

"About time you got down here, Venger." said a sardonically cynical woman's voice from somewhere in the resulting cloud of dust.

"Leia. Jabba done a bunk, then?" Harry asked, stepping into the room; Hermione peered round him, and took note of the scene.

There was a shaft about the size that'd fit a small helicopter running off at an oblique angle right in front of them, and she could see a speck of daylight at it's far end. Jabba's throne was squatted on a bunch of hydraulics between them and the shaft, protected by a utilitarian-looking blast shield.

And the woman was still sitting, now looking heartily annoyed, on the 'throne'.

"He left this." She said, holding up an envolope. "Said it was for you, Venger."

Harry frowned at the envelope, ran a bomb-sniffer over it, did several other checks, turned round, shrugged, and opened it.

"Son-of-a..." He muttered. "Fucking Hutts... they're all the goddamned same."

"What's it say, Master?" Hermione asked.

"Tell you later." Harry said, and she nodded, accepting that for now.

"I suppose I should thank you." Leia said, fingering her tether.

"You can thank me by giving your old man a chance, Leia." Harry calmly stated, not turning round, primarily because he was pretty certain he'd end up making a lewd remark if he turned round, and making lewd remarks at Darth Vader's daughter probably wasn't the best idea.

"I can't do that, Venger." she told him.

"Hatred is us Darksiders' job, girl." Harry replied. "Besides, do you really think he'd have done it if he knew who you were? Vader's a psychotic bastard - but he _became _a psychotic bastard because someone killed the only people he'd ever really given a shit about; try doing the research sometime. Frankly, in his boots, given what he knew, I'd have done just the same. Don't blame your old man - blame Palpatine."

He tucked his hand into his trenchcoat, withdrew a compact silk-wrapped object, and lobbed it over his shoulder to her.

It was a lightsabre.

"That belonged to your mother. Figure you ought to have it. So long - it's time I wasn't here."

And, with that, he walked out, leaving the annoyed princess turned blockade runner's wife still chained to the departed Hutt's throne.

Considering she was now holding a fully-functional lightsabre, odds were that situation wouldn't last.

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Orbiting the next planet starwards from Tattooinie, about a light-minute away from the current crisis, Boba Fett was taking some time off to brood and smoke a cigarette as he watched, on the maximum-zoom scopes, the blockade runners dust off.

He'd told Jabba that messing with the runners was a bad idea. He'd tried to explain until he got a sore throat, and it was like talking to a brick wall. Chances were the poor bastard was dead by now - and if he wasn't, he soon would be.

Seeming to punctuate that thought, a new contact appeared on his board, inching up over the horizon in a trailing orbit behind the Slave One. He interrogated it's IFF, and was slightly startled by the result. NIH-043 Weeping Angel. A quick check showed him that his half-recollected memory was right; the nation-code NIH belonged to the tiny nation of Nihon on the planet Earth.

"Slave One, Slave One, Slave One. This is the Weeping Angel, do you read me? Over."

"Slave One here, Captain Fett speaking. Reading you loud and clear, Weeping Angel. Over."

"Requesting permission to come abreast, Slave One. Over."

The hell with it, he was fucked anyway. Why not?

"Ah, roger that Weeping Angel. Orbital coordinates 4816 by 232 by 4211. Over."

"Roger that, Slave One. Moving to formation. Over."

Boba impassively watched the other ship come up behind his; he kept his hand on the warp throttle all the way, ready to throw the Slave One past the light barrier, just in case. He found he recognised the model of the other ship; a Sentek Triturbine supersports sled with some guns slung on the outboard side of the main turbines. She was an ugly-looking machine, blunt-nosed and stout, just like all of her kind, but she had that certain brutal economy about her, as seen in sports cars with words like Ferrari or Lamborghini written on them. Boba relaxed a bit; there wasn't much of anything a sled could pack that could punch through the Slave One's high-performance shields.

"Permission for tight-beam, Slave One? Over." the sled's pilot requested.

"Permission granted, Weeping Angel. Over." Boba replied, activating the subsystem in question.

He was promptly faced by a hologram of a gorgeous green-haired woman, sat in a sled's driver's seat, as the multimedia tight-beam comms locked in.

"Hello, Mr Fett." The woman said. "My name is Setsuna Meiuu, and it is very good to see you alive."

Setsuna Meiuu. He knew that name from more than one place. From one place, he knew of her as Slade Morley's daughter. From the other, he knew her as the Old Atlantean Senshei of Time.

And he knew enough to know that Slade's-brat-Setsuna and Sailor Pluto were the same person.

"My lady Pluto." he said, bowing his head. "To what do I owe this honour?"

"Enough with the platitudes, Mr Fett." She replied. "You're far more professional than to bow and scrape."

She paused, frowning slightly.

"Thankyou, My Lady." Boba said, grinning a bit. "And... a pretty girl like you can call me Boba."

Pluto smiled a bit. "As long as you call me Setsuna." she said.

"Very well then, Setsuna. So... to what do I owe this honour?"

"I and my... team, for want of a better word, have a need for professionals like yourself." she told him. "There is a situation developing in Tokyo, and we need people on retainer for when things go all to Hell; it's proving important to our plans. We are willing to pay you seventy thousand New Australian dollars a day, plus expenses, to remain on-station until the inevitable operation. And... a part of the payment is a promise that my father and his friends will do you no harm."

Boba frowned.

"Seventy kays a day, and I stay off Slade's target list, huh?" he said. "I'd be a damn fool to refuse, though I confess I fail to see why you want me in particular."

"That's relatively simple." Pluto said, shrugging. "You are one of the top three finest bounty-hunters in this galaxy. You know exactly how to identify a target, you know exactly how to track a target, you know exactly how to appraise a target, you know exactly how to capture or eliminate a target, and as a result you do of course know the most efficient countermeasures against such identification, tracking, appraisal, and elimination or capture. You are one of the best there is."

Boba nodded thoughtfully. "Perhaps. You realise I'll need backup, just in case?"

"Of course. We'll leave it up to you to locate suitable support; the maximum we can cover is twelve individuals, at a rate of thirty-five thousand New Australian dollars a day each, plus costs. Oh, and Boba? Understand that we'll be hiring other operatives ourselves."

This time, Boba smiled. It was a matter of form. There was a certain criteria to hiring a mercenary or, for that mercenary, accepting a job. A ritual, if you like. That was how it had had always been done, and how it probably always would be done. The dance must be danced.

"I'll take the job." he said.

"Good." Setsuna said. "Lay in a course for Pluto - I'll meet you there."

A few moments later, both tiny ships had flashed away outsystem and past the light barrier.

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Harry lay, mind idling, chin resting on forepaws, studying Hermione. They'd completed the necessary repairs to get the Shen-Long dusted off in short order, and were heading back to Earth - there was the Festival of Fire on Kendarat in four days time, then not long after that there was some sort of do on at the Weasely place, then shortly thereafter they'd be back to the Collegium. He intended to spend the interim getting his mother - his poor, dear, mindwiped mother - up to speed for Collegium entry, farming for info on Voldemort's goons, and just being with Hermione, watching her, enjoying her presence - just like now.

He'd seen her wearing less before - he'd seen her butt-naked a few times - but the effect was, to his view, vastly improved by the harem finery she was currently clad in, especially the chains that gently restrained her and tethered her to his throne and the way they said to any onlooker that she belonged to him. Not that he'd ever grow tired of looking at her, regardless of how she was dressed, as he went over her again and again with eyes and mind, committing every last detail, every little nuance of her movements, to memory. The way the light fell on her hair. The distant contemplative look in her eyes. The way she was toying with one of the handles on her Luggage, which had stubbornly refused to be separated from her after it caught up with them at the Shen-Long – he just couldn't get enough of her. Looking at her, smelling her, feeling the pure and unimaginably powerful fusion-turbine roar from her aura - gods, she was gorgeous. No, she was beyond gorgeous.

She was perfection itself.

He wasn't really sure when he'd become so obsessed with her. It had gradually crept up on him sometime between when he'd first met her at King's Cross and when he'd seen her collar herself; he'd first begun to notice the near-overwhelming desire to hide her away from the universe where nothing could touch her when he realised what Flint had done to her, and he'd been fighting - and losing – against that desire, tooth and nail, ever since.

He'd told himself it was just his hoarding instincts, that it was just because she was an Omega weapon, but he'd long since stopped being able to fool himself. These days, he could tell himself the same tired old lies over and over again, and still not believe them.

The last time he'd got anything even approaching this fixated on a girl, she'd turned out to be a Tzeentchian champion, and the resulting mess had turned him from a kid with an attitude that had been (in hindsight) like a hopeful and friendly little abused puppy, into his own least favourite person... and, now that he had Hermione, Carla Jutland (or, to give her true name, Nehelania) was beginning to fade from the forefront of his mind.

They'd had such plans for Hermione. They'd planned to forge her into a weapon; she was a critically important part of their plans, and the simple fact that, no matter how much he lied to himself about it, Harry still knew to his bones that he was head-over-wingtips in love with her – that simple fact threatened to derail those vital plans. After he'd implanted the first compulsion into her head – that oh-so-intriguing obedience compulsion - when she'd realised what he'd done to her, he'd nearly lost it at the look of shock and betrayal on her face.

That was when he'd realised how he felt about her, and he told himself, never again. For the first time in his life, he'd found means that the ends – even their critically important ends, the ends they'd agreed justified any and all means – did not and could not justify. Nothing and nobody was allowed to put that look on his precious Hermione's face, and if anyone tried, he'd kill the bastard and to Hell with the plans and questions.

Damn it. He wanted her more than he'd ever wanted anything - she was his own little slice of beauty in a universe he loathed. He wanted to throw her down on the ground and have his wicked way with her, and he knew that if he told her to do it, she was incapable of saying no.

Let he who would battle monsters beware indeed. He'd done a lot of things he regretted, a lot of things he knew he shouldn't have, but no way in Hell would he go _that _far. Never mind sinking to the level of filth like Vernon Dursley and Marcus Flint; it would put the betrayed look on Hermione's face again - and Hermione's face should never look like that.

Never again. Frankly, he'd rather that they failed and the universe died than he was forced to see that look in Hermione's eyes again. He'd bleed for her. He'd die for her. He'd kill for her, without hesitation or remorse. He fully intended to shake the galaxy for her, and telling himself it was because of mere plans was a waste of valuable time. She belonged to him, mind and body – yet, at the same time, his heart and soul were her private property.

He was jerked out of his ruminations by Hermione rolling onto her back, sighing, and giving the ceiling a pensive look.

"So... what was that letter Leia gave you about, Master?" she asked.

Harry snorted, even as he smiled inwardly at the unabashed thrill he got from her calling him that. The letter had read, in Huttese:

-/-

Howdy, Stormclaw.

Be a pal and let Vader know Rava Flametounge was threatening my family, okay? I didn't want to cross the line, but it's not like I had a hell of a lot of choice, and hey, the pay was good, so whatever.

You leave me in a bit of a quandary, Stormclaw. I owe you for getting rid of that ignoramus Rava, but at the same time you owe me one real nice palace and a whole bunch of useful servants and nifty pets, oh, and a dull but functional star-system.

Watch your back, dry-skin. I'll be taking the costs out your hide, and the same goes for your little blockade-runner friends. Space is a big place, and I only need to get lucky once, while you need to get lucky every day of your life.

Of course, I would drop the matter for the meagre sum of six billion League dollars, in used unmarked notes, shipped to one of my subordinates on Rokolushu, a Mr Slov Borkavich at 381 Imperial Docks in Jurai City. You and your pet redneck spacers have six weeks to come up with the goods, or I get serious on the lot of you.

Signed:

Jabba the Hutt.

-/-

"The bastard simultaneously disavowed responsibility and claimed the pay made it worthwhile." Harry grumbled. "According to bitch-tits, Rava fucking Flametongue was threatening him into accepting the job. Now, I wouldn't put that past Rava, but the next thing I know Jabba starts threatening to kill me and the runners unless we pay him six billion New Aussie dollars within six months. Typical damned Hutt – those bastards will do anything for money and they'll give it a go extorting anyone any chance they get." Harry grimaced a bit, realising what a hypocrite he was being – but Jabba's tone had pissed him off. At least he didn't tend to pretend to be all buddy-buddy when he was off to fuck someone over.

"Rava?" Hermione asked. "Who's he, Master?"

"Rava Flametongue." Harry told her. "That dragon I turned into a pile of stupid dead fuck while you were out. Ancient history for me... You know Sestuna's cybernetic arm?"

"Sure I do, Master."

"Well, Rava fucking Flametongue and his worthless brat of a son are the reason Setsuna needed a cybernetic arm in the first place. Rava... was always a nasty piece of work. He thought it was funny to eat humanic children in front of their parents, and he passed that on to his brat, who attempted to eat Setsuna in front of her mother at a palace do on Arcadia. So of course her mother ventilated the little bastard's skull clean through. Rava reacted, tried to have Setsuna's mother murdered, so I turned his yacht into an anti-matter blast. That was the last I heard of him until today. Gotta hand it to the bastard, he did a hell of a job of covering his tracks – I could've sworn he was dead." And next time he killed a personal enemy, he'd make sure of the job.

"Why do people have to be so fucked-up, Master?" Hermione asked.

"Good question." Harry sighed. "I reckon the fact is, life breaks everyone - and the people who won't break die."

Hermione nodded.

"That's an old saw, Master."

"Sometimes a cliché gets repeated enough to become a cliché because it's true."

"I wish things could be simple, Master. I really do."

Harry gave her a sad and tired look.

"It'd be nice if the world was clear-cut, wouldn't it?" he asked. "It'd be nice if monsters looked and acted like monsters, heroes looked and acted heroic, villains had bad-guy moustaches and evil laughs, innocents never had to be broken for so-called noble goals, the good guys didn't have skeletons in their closets, laws were fair, nobody had to kill to survive, and good things happened to good people. Wouldn't it?"

Hermione nodded, her expression distant.

"We're not living in that universe, are we, Master?" she asked. Harry decided to reply, even though he was pretty sure it was a rhetorical question; he rested his cheek against her side, and blew out a huge draconian sigh.

"We're in the real universe." He said, and she sighed and cuddled up against his head, staring off out the front of the Shen-Long's bridge into the depths of space and the uncertain future.

Soon, it would be time to tell Hermione the truth... but she wasn't ready yet.

Yeah. The real universe, down in the dust with the scum of a galaxy.

**-/-End Chapter-/-**

Apologies for the horrific 'Huttese' portrayed herein. I couldn't work out how else to write it since subtitles are difficult to pull off in fanfics. Likewise, sorry about the abrupt change in my scene breaks; have started mangling the series of -'s I was using. When in the fuck are they going to work out that nobody likes reading a solid block of text and a single '-' doesn't cut it as a scene break?

To put the characterisation of the assorted blockade runner crews in perspective, if Luke and Bo Duke, the Bandit, Cleetus Snow, and the Rubber Duck were spacers, they'd likely be blockade runners. These people are heavily-armed redneck outlaws with hot-rod starships.

I've compiled a reference list for the radio chatter between the assorted 'runners; I'll be posting it on my forum shortly.

Doghead Out.


	11. Chapter 11

**This ain't no self-insert fic.**

**This ain't no slash fic neither.**

**This is Top Dog.**

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_Retract shaking arms_

_Pull the wires out of your veins_

_Regain control, regain your soul_

_Take off the harness, take the reins_

_Click here and dissasociate_

_Save now and start again_

_Shut down and re-associate_

_Save now and never again. _

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As Harry and Hermione walked into Ben Chaos's living room, having taken a trip through assorted subspace doors and (in Hermione's case) changed back into her own clothes, they found someone – or, rather, a fair number of someones – waiting for them.

In particular, Tara, who was leaning against the doorframe and tapping her foot.

The black-furred Kenti beauty whirled round and fixed Harry with a ferocious glower, her outstretched index finger hovering a scant few millimetres from the tip of his nose.

"You owe us an explanation, 'Feran Deathblade'." she growled.

"Where'd you hear that name?" Harry asked, cocking his head.

"Are you forgetting I sussed it out a while back?" Ben Chaos asked, still lounging on his front deck.

"I wanted it kept hush-hush for a reason, Ben."

Ben got up, and wandered over.

"Aw c'mon." he said. "I didn't tell anyone who doesn't care about you... Fuck sake. We're your mates, Harry – when are you gonna stop cutting us out of the loop? "

"Indeed." S'tarak'hai rumbled. "Johnson... when will you cease to run off without your backup?"

"It's not that I don't appreciate you settin' things straight with Jabba, mate, but us blockade runners were wantin' a piece of the action." Bruce chirped up.

"When we saw that yacht down in the dirt, and Ben said it's yours, I was worried dammit!" Tara complained before Harry could get a word in edgewise.

"Yeah man, we all care about you." Ron Weasely provided. "I know I ain't a cyborg or a dragon or whatever, but a bloke's gotta stick by his friends, right?"

"I just don't want you guys getting hurt." Harry said.

"What, by running off and nearly getting yourself wasted?" Tara fairly growled, instantly furious. "That is not cool, Harry Johnson!"

"I've been working solo a long time, Tara."

"And you are fortunate indeed that you have not got yourself killed." S'tarak'hai bluntly informed him, glowering at the weredragon. "Only a foolish amateur goes running off without his backup and you know it."

"And right now, we're your backup mate." Alice added. "You're a solid bloke and I'd fuckin' hate to see you get iced, so just stop going off half bloody cocked already."

Harry finally nodded.

"I... well, I'll probably have to, from time to time." he said. "There is a lot more going on than you guys know about."

"Are you saying you don't trust us?" Tara growled, her glare intensifying.

"I trust you just fine, Tarai m'lady." Harry told her. "But there are highly-talented mind-readers out there, such as Severus Snape, who cannot under any circumstances be permitted to learn the truth – or we're all screwed. No, Tara, don't push me on this. I'll do whatever it takes to stop Voldemort, and if that means leaving my friends out of the loop – well, sorry, but I don't have a hell of a lot of choice."

"S'tarak'hai has First Legion psi-defence cyberware and training." Tara told him, putting a hand on the massive catman's shoulder. "Please, just... take him with you whenever you really have to, well, do that? Please?"

"Where I can." Harry told her.

"My psionic defence is superb, but not perfect." S'tarak'hai told Tara. "I am with Johnson on that point; if a dragon cannot conceal a fact from a mind-reader, no man can."

"You took Hermione with you." Tara pointed out.

"And there are times where I haven't, and won't." Harry riposted. "Look, Tara. It is absolutely vital that I win this one, and not just for me. If he takes Earth, we're all screwed."

"How so?" Bruce asked. "I mean, not that I've got anything against Earth, but..."

"Because Earth is all that's keeping the Clanspace Alliance stable." Harry told him. "Earth being here stops the Clans doing anything too extreme – none of them want spillover to take out their homeworld. And because every last one of Emperor Azusa Juraia's surviving descendants is on Earth. If Earth goes, we lose the Clans and the Juraiain Empire to infighting of one sort or another. The Clans are all that's keeping the phronima contained, and they're the only buffer between the Thousand Kingdoms and the Eastern Rim Alliance. Damn straight the Clanguards are mean bastards – they have to be, or it's ERA expansionism all over again. The Juraians are what's protecting the Thousand Kingdoms' southern flank from the Nalfers, and likewise they're protecting the Frognorfian's northern flank – and they're providing the Frognorfians with their primary ally against the Norfs. Imagine what a galactic map would look like if those two polities collapsed. Suddenly the Kenti are surrounded on three flanks by Nalfer space, the Nalfers and ERA have opened up another front against each other, there's phronima fucking everywhere because you can bet your last penny the Psi Corps would try to use those fucking things as bioweapons, and the Frognorfians start losing against the Norfs, badly, and at the same time they get hit in the back by the Nalfers. I reckon it'd take a year, tops, for the Frognorfians to collapse – all that'd be left would be desperate refugees fleeing into Frououshtequoo space. The Thousand Kingdoms would probably hold out five, maybe six years – longer if the Nalfers got properly embroiled with the Norfs, but I know for damn certain the Nalfers don't have what it's got to hold the Norfs for more than a year or two. Take out Earth and you've pulled the keystone out of under the whole damn galaxy. Why do you think so many nations sell warships to Earther governments at such a huge loss? Jesus, at their current GNP it'd take the United States of America a hundred sixty years to pay for a single K'rala'tarn-class cruiser, and they've got fifty of the damn things on system patrol. The Brits have twelve. The Japanese, sixteen. Even the Aussies have a couple up. All in, there is an entire battlefleet worth of ships registered to and operated by Earther nations, and they paid the combined price of one cheap destroyer."

S'tarak'hai and Ben had been nodding along to all that.

"He shits you not." Ben told Tara. "There ain't many people know it, but..."

"You were right about today, Tara." Harry said. "I probably shouldn't have taken off on a solo run. If things had gone to plan, I'd have had it all sorted out before you guys dropped in-system – but I wasn't expecting Rava fucking Flametounge and I wasn't expecting to run into a defiler bane."

"In other words, you forgot that no plan ever lasts throughout a combat situation." S'tarak'hai rumbled, frowning. "I am surprised at you, Johnson. You are slipping."

"Yeah yeah, I fucked up, no need to rub it in."

The combined CTMA and R'hara'tath siblings shared a meaningful silence, finally broken by S'tarak'hai.

"So..."

"So?" Harry asked, cocking his head.

"Will you be on the homeworld for the Festival of Flame?"

"Wouldn't miss it for the galaxy, big man." Harry said with a nod and lop-sided grin.

"Festival of Flame?" Hermione queried, not sure what this might be.

Tara glanced over, her grin quirky, and recited;

"Light a fire for the warriors, light a fire for the slaves,

Light a fire for sacred places, light a fire for heroes graves."

"Light a fire for the faces nobody remembers any more,

Light a fire for the voices nobody speaks in any more,

Light a fire for ancient places nobody walks in any more."

"Light a fire for the warriors, light a fire for the slaves,

Light a fire for sacred places, light a fire for heroes graves."

"Light a fire for the children nobody cares for any more,

Light a fire for the people nobody speaks of any more,

Light a fire for the dead of eighty thousand years of war."

"... I had not realised that an English translation existed." S'tarak'hai said. "It sounds quite peculiar. Almost... profane."

"Well, they had to change the words, didn't they? Or it'd have sounded fucked up." Tara said with a shrug. "Things that rhyme in Kentare don't rhyme in English, and, well, would sound a bit stupid, really. If you translated it literally, that is."

"You are correct, I suppose." the big catman rumbled, giving her one of his faintly bemused looks.

"Of course I'm right, I'm me, I'm _always _right."

"Women." Harry remarked, sounding highly amused and as a result earning himself offensive gestures and stuck-out tongues from Alice, Tara, Hermione, Michelle, Luna, and several R'hara'taths. "Oh come on, with a crack like Tara just made, I _had_ to. If I didn't I'd be abandoning my cynical old dragon duties, and we can't be having with that."

"Same old Harry." Hermione said with a laugh and a shake of her head.

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**Disclaimer: My mind is like a plastic bag.**

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**Top Dog: Enter the Fnords**

**Intermission 1: Harry Johnson and the Lunatic Scientist**

**A Doghead13 / United Galaxies fanfic**

**Written & produced by Calum J 'Doghead13' Wallace**

**Preread by the CaerAzkaban Yahoo group**

**Brought to you by Hairy Scottish Git Productions, GMBH**

**This is not a drill.**

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**Chapter 11: Not quite the obligatory Diagon Alley chapter.**

**(In which our hero & heroine visit a very odd city.)**

The next day, Hermione woke up late, had a leisurely breakfast, fiddled around with her bike for a while, then curled up in her room for a good read.

She'd been reading for about an hour, and it was about one in the afternoon, when she received an interruption in the form of Harry asking, "Good book?"

Hermione looked up from her book. Presumably, he'd ambled into the room while she was distracted.

"It's about Mars." she said. "Did you know there's six Mars-native sentient species? There's White Martians, the name's a bit of a misonomer since they're what's left of the Adeptus Mechanicus and they mostly dress in red. There's Red Martians, and that's a misonomer too since they're sort of brownish humanics, they look a lot like Earther humans but, believe it or not, lay eggs. I wonder how that evolved...? There's Green Martians, these vaguely-humanic six-limbed things, but they aren't green. There's other Green Martians, they're these shape-shifting telepathic things. There's Grey Martians, they look a bit like those crap-movie little-green-men-from-Mars only not, you know, rubber, and a sort of greyish-greenish-brown colour. There's Black Martians, they're vaguely humanoid but that sort of black that's blacker than black, you know, the kind that absorbs every last scrap of light that falls on it, well, apart from their eyes. And there's Brown Martians, which look sort of like a big muddy-coloured octopus with a huge great brain where the octopus arse goes, and apparently they're why NASA and suchlike haven't got any real readings of the Martian surface – they use holograms and such-like to spoof the probe sensors, though I haven't got to why."

Harry grinned at her.

"I've been on Mars." he said. "Fascinating planet, and the scenery is nothing short of amazing."

"I just don't get this whole naming-themselves-colours thing." Hermione grumbled. "Why call the Adeptus Mechanicus 'White', for God's sake? And why are there two sets of 'green'?"

"Well, actually, I only know the answer to the first one." Harry said with a shrug. "They were named that by an Earther mutant named John Carter, he's got the ability to... well, translocate himself, basically by dumping his current body – which dies – and manifesting a new one at his target destination – makes him functionally immortal because every time he does it the body he ends up in is a young adult him, but it also means he's got two dozen graves. I've never met the guy, but most of what I've heard is good. Anyway, he started referring to the Ad Mechs as 'White Martians' because the ones who still have meat limbs are largely Caucasian-looking, and he called the Red Martians 'Red Martians' because they're mostly a similar colour to Native Americans. It kind of... caught on."

"That sounds a bit... well, racist really."

Harry nodded. "Yeah, from a modern perspective it does. Thing being, Carter landed up on Mars what, three or four years after the American Civil War. Back then, what are these days racial slurs were acceptable language." He shrugged. "Times change, kiddo."

"I guess." Hermione mused. "Say... is the majority of Martian vegetation seriously red?"

"Yup." Harry said with a nod. "High iron content, weird relative of photosynthesis, basically they produce oxygen by rusting. Hey, we can go there in the next couple weeks if you like – you really oughtta see Barsoom City, it makes Daigon Alley look like the shit-hole it really is, and if you thought R'harash'gai't'rath was a megalopolis, well, you ain't seen nothing yet! Hell, I'd say Mars in general and Barsoom City in particular would be the best place in this system to shop – no pesky gun laws, low taxes, cheap slaves, fast cars, big robots, plentiful archeotech, high-revving chainswords, funky cyberware, shithot starships, great drugs, strong drink, and there's all sorts of weird and exotic crap on sale from half the galaxy. It's a great place, with all the facilities folks like us could ever need. Hell, even the scum and villainy are grade-A – I swear everything's better with Martians*."

"You really like Mars, don't you Harry?" Hermione asked, recognising the subtle enthusiasm in Harry's voice. She'd heard it before when he talked about Kendarat or New Tasmania.

"It feels like a second home to me." Harry said with a shrug, incidentally confirming her suspicions.

"I'd love to go there." she said. "Just to, you know, do the tourist thing and maybe shop a bit."

"OK, cool. Tell you what, we'll go over there after the Festival of Fire." Harry said, idly leaning against her wardrobe. "But anyway, right now we've got a tech-adept to talk to about your collar. You'd better get a bookmark – you can finish reading en route."

"What about my collar?" Hermione asked, self-consciously fingering it.

"I'd figured it'd be sufficient for well into next year, but judging by that black hole you manifested at the R'hara'tath place and the way you fried that rancor, you're coming along a lot faster than I expected." he explained, smiling and messing her hair up with one hand. "That'll teach me to underestimate you."

Hermione went bright red, at the same time wondering just when the Hell his approval had become so important to her.

"Okay." she said, unearthing an unused bookmark (a rare and valuable object in Hermione's bedroom) from among the pile of magazines on the coffee table, and tucking it into her book. "Let's go."

Harry grinned at her, obviously enjoying the blush, and headed for the subspace door.

"So... where are we going and how are we getting there?"

"Where we're going is a surprise. How we're getting there is a starship." Harry said, then grinned slightly at her narked look. "Sorry, sorry. To really appreciate where we're going, you have to fly there and you have to not be expecting it. Far as I can figure, it's one of the most special sights in the universe. You'd better let your folks know we're heading out."

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"So where are we going?" Hermione asked. "I thought your ship was at that asteroid base?" Two hours had passed since he'd dragged her to his bike, and they were now just stopped in Wick harbour, having been closely followed by a Volkswagen minibus for the last six miles.

"One of my other ships." Harry said, letting her off the back of the Fenrir.

"You've got more than one starship? Aw, I should've figured… Um, how come it's parked up in the like sea-type-ship docks?"

"She's a Deladarian-built vessel." Harry said with an idle shrug, tapping a control on his watch thus causing the Fenrir to disappear. "Which means, basically, an enchanted sailing ship; in Earther terms, she's what's called a spelljammer."

Hermione peered around. The quay seemed to primarily host work-stained old diesel-engined trawlers and crabbers, and the occasional nice if small yacht or cabin cruiser. Apart from, at the far end, a hideous old pile of rotting timbers and mildew in the rough shape of a Chinese-style junk crossed with an old-school wooden-hulled trawler, this being the only vessel in sight to possess sails.

"It's not _that_, is it?" She asked, pointing.

Harry grinned and nodded, leading her over to the junk.

Hermione stared in horror at the decaying old monstrosity as they approached. The junk was a rough assembly of peeling paint and mouldering wood coated with mildew and grime; she sat listed to port, and an engine could be heard spluttering away beneath her slanting decks, in time to the gouts of disgusting red-brown bilge-water spitting from her pump outlet.

And, painted in massive dirty off-white letters on the side of the travel-stained and filthy wreck's hull, was:

LSS-27739

Lucky Dragon

COWABUNGA

"That old thing's a League ship?" Hermione checked.

Harry nodded cheerfully. "Advantage of being mates with Ben Chaos; I got me a League of Affiliated Miners and Free Traders registration for my Q-ship. Heh, she's gotta be about the only Deladarian garbage scow with a League reg. C'mon aboard; the sooner we get going the better."

Hermione nodded, and dubiously followed him up the gangplank and onto the decrepit, rotten-timbered junk's sloping deck. Behind them, the Puma twins, Carla, and a group of assorted slightly piratical-looking women disembarked from the Volkswagen bus and followed them aboard; the bus turned and drove off back out the harbour and back the way it had come.

"My God." Hermione said. "I'm amazed this _thing_ still _floats_…"

"She's not as bad as she looks." Harry said with a wink. "I purposefully altered her so she sits at eight degrees off level, and all the rot on her woodwork is actually faked. Same goes for the moss, and the rust on her metalwork. She's actually a hell of a lot _more_ sound than the day she left the yard – I rebuilt her in some rather, uh, _special_ wood."

"Okay, but… why in the fuck do you want her to look _this_ nasty?"

Harry smirked.

"I like being underestimated." He said. "This old girl is what we in the business call a Q-ship; she's the same size class as an assault gunship, and that is _exactly_ what she is. She's not the fastest, she'll only just scrape seven hundred gravities and that'll make her resonate like a vibroknife, but she can make pretty much anything that can keep up seriously regret it. Besides, just how embarrassing would it be to get blown out the sky by a rotten old junk designed to transport raw sewage?" He gave the doorframe an affectionate slap as he led Hermione into the old ship's wheelhouse. "Yup, I do everything I can to make this ship look like a piece of shit, and the main reason I got her registered with the League is because they don't enforce safety certification, unlike just about every other nation in the galaxy. She's in a perfectly fit state to pass cert, of course, but I want people to think otherwise; she hasn't been through certification since before I got my greasy paws on her."

The wheelhouse was just as disreputable as the rest of the ship, replete with plentiful mildew; however, on entering, Hermione got a momentary feeling of vertigo, and suddenly the decking seemed to be perfectly level while the world outside was sloped; she figured the ship's interior had to have a running gravity generation system.

She shook herself and glanced around the wheelhouse.

All it's assorted electronics were obviously cobbled together from random mismatched components; Hermione could recognise the sensory, autopilot and fire control panels from her basic familiarity with operation of the Blink Dog, but the helm consisted of a great big wooden multiple-handled ship's wheel, upon which a snowy owl was perched, and where the throttle racks should be there was a handful-sized crystal ball; a rather more conventional throttle was tacked to the console beside it. Bolted to the floor and fitted with rather incongruous five-point harnesses were several old overstuffed leather sofas of the sort normally seen in pubs, and at the back of the wheelhouse was a nice wooden sideboard festooned with gemstones and a massive crystal ball.

Wait a minute, snowy owl perched on the ship's wheel?

"Harry, is there _supposed_ to be an owl in here?"

The owl rotated it's head through 180 degrees, so it was looking straight backwards at Hermione. It blinked, then sprang from it's perch, alighting a couple seconds later on Harry's shoulder, where it rattled it's beak at Hermione; something about it's tone and posture seemed offended.

"Relax, it's cool, and yes, there _is_ supposed to be a stupid human in here." Harry said to the owl. "Hermione, this is Hedwig Jaarvip, she's an old friend of mine. Hedwig, this is Hermione; I told you about her."

The owl turned her head, contemplated Hermione for a moment, then flew back to the helm and perched there watching Hermione with her unnervingly large circular owl eyes.

"… I guess that'd be a yes." Hermione said.

Harry chuckled and flopped into an available seat.

"Heh, yeah. She's actually a Scandinavian animagus who spent way _way_ too much time in animal form." He explained; Hermione sat down beside him, curiously watching the owl curiously watch her. "Cognitive dissonance; some animagi transform one day then never change back – they usually eventually forget how, not that people like Hedwig would actually _want_ to change back. She had to grow up way too fast, and, well, life's a hell of a lot simpler when you're an owl."

Hedwig made an agreeing noise that sounded a bit like 'Prrek'. Hermione wasn't quite sure how the weird squawking noises this owl made could convey agreement, but Hedwig managed the trick.

"I ran into her when I was operating in Norway one time." Harry continued. "I figured out what she is because mindspeech doesn't work on any ordinary owl, and, well, let's just say when I left Norway, she left with me."

"Right." Hermione said, then frowned. "Hey, how come mindspeech doesn't work on owls?"

"It only works on sentients." Harry said, shrugging. "We get a bit of raw emotion and desires from non-sentients, but that's it; it's usually pretty direct and immediate stuff. They don't really have enough in the way of thoughts to project much more than that; it's one of the limitations of the medium. Well, some critters are smarter than that, you'd be surprised how much like a small child a chimp 'sounds', and the same goes for a lot of dogs. Of course, if an animagus had a decent level of psi-defence training we wouldn't be able to tell the difference, but that's beside the point. Anyway, back on subject, Hedwig living here is convenient for both of us. She gets an easy supply of food, a safe place to roost, and a friendly shoulder to perch on; I get a set of eyes and ears aboard my Q-ship where hardly anyone's gonna guess there's a sentient mind that understands every last word they say. Works for us."

Hedwig rattled her beak and looked faintly smug.

"Anyway, we'd better prep this ol' bucket of bolts and get mobile."

Hedwig leapt to one of the consoles and began flipping switches with her beak; Harry went to the large crystal ball at the back of the wheelhouse, tapped a gem on the wooden sideboard in front of it, and had a judicious look at the starmap that appeared in the crystal ball.

"We're heading for the Orion dust cloud." He said. "I'm routing the position to your console… plot us a course, Nav."

"Prrrrek!" Hedwig assured, pecked at a few more controls, critically examined the screen, made some adjustments, then stood back looking smug.

"An owl as a navigator; now I really have seen it all." Hermione muttered, and received an exceptionally self-satisfied look from the owl.

"I've seen weirder." Harry said. "There's a guy Stateside I vaguely know who's got a pet rabbit by the name of Bun-Bun, and let's just say the rabbit's the brains _and_ brawn out of that particular partnership. He only puts up with Torg because his legs aren't long enough to reach a car's pedals." He picked up a very conventional comms mike from it's hook near the helm and thumbed it on. "OK ladies, get her ready for departure. It's time we weren't here."

They sailed from Wick with the tide, Harry casually bantering with a couple of local crab-boat skippers over the radio. The Lucky Dragon had multiple sets of comms; a shipboard PA system, an Earther-style shipping radio, and a somewhat out-of-place very advanced subspace comms system. Likewise, she had multiple sets of motive power; her sails (which, in conjunction with her spelljamming helm, took her through space at a respectable if not-very-fast superluminal velocity) and a Cummings marine diesel engine connected to a single prop, which gave her aquatic mobility that didn't depend on the wind.

An hour out to sea with the wind now behind them, Harry gave the order to rig the ship for takeoff, waited until the First Mate (a distinctly piratical-looking young lady named Meg, who Hermione noted to wear a very familiar brightly-polished metal collar) reported them ready, then shut down the diesel engine, placed his left hand on the crystal ball beside said engine's throttle, took a good grip on the uppermost handle on the wheel, and firmly pulled back.

The bows lifted; the sea gently slipped away from below the Lucky Dragon, and they were airborne. The pump engine clattered into silence, and Harry turned the crystal ball several clicks anticlockwise.

The sea and the distant north coast of Scotland plummeted away beneath the Lucky Dragon in silky silence, broken only by the odd creak of timbers and the rustle of her sails; swiftly, silently, the sky turned black, the stars came out, and a visible field of trapped environment sprang into life around the ship.

At last, Harry touched a couple of gemstones on the console in front of the helm; the heavens burst in an avalanche of multicoloured light as the enchantments upon the Lucky Dragon's hull and sails picked up the wind of magic that blows between the stars and hurled the battered old junk past the light barrier and into the depths of space.

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The League of Affiliated Miners and Free Traders deep-space mining platform LSS-002 Cowabunga is the largest self-propelled structure ever created.

From the tip of the muzzle of her kilometre-calibre keelgun (the galaxy's biggest smoothbore shotgun) to the very trailing edge of her staggeringly enormous array of main turbines, she's a touch over a hundred kilometres in overall length.

To put that into perspective, if you stood her on her tail with said tail at sea level, her bridge tower would be in the stratosphere and her very fore-end would be at the sort of altitude where meteor trails happen. She's also about twenty kilometres wide by fifteen tall, with another five kilometres of bridge tower on top of that; if you were to sit her with her keel at sea level, the upper decks of her main hull would be too high for a Concorde to fly over. Her main hold is so vast that, if you were to uproot Manhattan Island and pop it inside, it would rattle around. It's conceptually possible for her to land in a large enough body of water – her size-to-mass ratio is enough that she'd float, and her mighty frame could take the strain – but to do so would raise the sea level of any aquatic world in known space by several metres. It's not unusual for her to enter an atmosphere; when something the size of the Cowabunga decides to descend on her grav fields to only five kilometres altitude, the atmosphere has little option about getting out the way. She once descended to fifty metres from the New Australian sunside deserts, and her main structure was constructed and fitted with her essential systems on the surface of that chaotic planet – but ever since the long-ago day that she rose, thundering, into the purple nebula-stained sky, she has never felt the surface of a planet beneath her star-stained keel.

A gnarly, misshapen, almost organic-looking, graffiti-strewn and monumental spaceborne mean street with an annual GNP significantly higher than Earth, she is the capital city of the League – and she looks the part. Leaguer ships have a reputation for being banged-up barely-operational old rust-buckets held together with duct tape and prayers, and that is the Cowabunga from stem to stern. Her knobbly hide is scarred by micrometeoroid impacts, kilometre-long streaks of rust, and 'urban artwork' as big as city blocks; she's perpetually surrounded by an orbiting halo of trash and industrial waste. Her labyrinthine corridors, tram tubes, cargo conduits, hab decks, and processing bays are home to close on two billion souls, many of whom have never breathed the air of a natural world.

The scale on which she is constructed is so mind-bendingly vast that, on first seeing her, people never realise the scale. In fact, she's so obnoxiously massive that, if she hangs around in the same place for a few days, passing spaceflot is liable to get sucked into orbit around her. Of course, back when she was built she didn't quite look how she does today; she's been in continuous operation for almost seven centuries, with any necessary repairs undertaken in space using whatever was available, and she's been repeatedly modified to take advantage of newer and better technology as it became available to the League. There are places aboard that old monster that haven't been seen by sentient eyes in centuries; compartments that have been without atmospheric integrity for over half a millennium, and entire sectors of decks sealed off by new constructions for untold years. There are many ships far older than the Cowabunga, but few have quite the same air of history as the rusting monster many people call the Big Lady.

She is, simply put, a megacity taken flight, with a fold drive and a whole galaxy of fusion turbines and gravlifts strapped on.

Hermione Allison Granger's reaction on seeing this stunningly massive and incredibly ugly old monstrosity was absolutely typical. Her backside hit the seat behind her with a thump as she stared in silent slack-jawed bug-eyed disbelief at the wall of rust and graffiti and metal spread out before her.

Harry grinned at her, and turned his attention back to the comms.

"Cowabunga STC, this is the LSS-27739 Lucky Dragon requesting permission to approach. Be aware that we are a Deladarian-built vessel and will require aquatic docking facilities. Over."

"Gudday LSS-27739, we've got you on the scope. You're cleared to approach, lane 317, slip 21863. Welcome home, Lucky Dragon. Over." Said a female and cheerfully Australian voice.

"Roger, Cowabunga STC. This is the Lucky Dragon on approach. Over." Harry said, not bothering to keep the amusement out of his voice.

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"So, what's the plan?" Hermione asked. They'd been docked for about twenty minutes, long enough for the crew to moor the ramshackle spelljammer to the quay within the Cowabunga's sole aquatic docking facility, and she and Harry were now on deck and heading for the gangplank.

"We're here to touch base with an old contact of mine." Harry said. "Name's Arvus Volkmarr. He's Adeptus Mechanicus, seconded to the Ordo Malleus, given the powers of a full Inquisitor, and transferred to the Ordo Mystica as an Inquisitor-Theoretical, these days he's one of the Imperium's acknowledged assets in the League. Here in Galactic Council space he's also considered the galaxy's number one top expert on high-energy thaumatic physics."

"So, what's he got for us?"

Harry shrugged. "I'd figured that collar would be enough to do the job until at least the end of next year, but judging by that black hole you generated at the R'hara'tath place you're coming along a lot faster than I expected." He gave her a sideon look. "Now, what two groups know more about the direction and control of thaumatic energy than anyone else alive?"

"Ordo Mystica, Ordo Malleus." Hermione reeled off from memory, and then blinked. "Oh." They'd covered that late in the first-year History of Magecraft course.

Harry nodded. "Exactly. He's been itching to get a look at you since he heard about you from Setsuna. His original big break was unravelling the part of Jokaero genetics that stores and defines their instinctive aptitude for technology, then about a century back he discovered the interstellar ley-lines that link every last star in the galaxy and the varied galaxies in our supergroup – in other words, he's the guy who worked out where the New Australia wormhole generator gets it's juice. The guy wrote the modern thaumatic physics textbooks, and I mean that very literally – if you checked the book list for the thaumatic physics course next year, you'll find 'Inquisitor A Volkmarr, Ordo Mystica' listed as sole author on every last one of 'em. Your existence confirms some theories he's been maintaining for quite some time, one of 'em being the reason he was told to shut up then when he didn't he got shipped off to what he calls 'The most boring machine-miracle in the cosmos' to get him out the way. Anyway, getting to the point, he's agreed to utilise some of the material he was able to decipher from New Australia's control banks to assemble something that ought to give you a stabilisation curve right the way up and beyond overbombing, and a heck of a lot better one than that collar." He grimaced. "Problem is, he's going to have to carefully examine your collar to do the job, your aura will have left an image imprinted on it, and, well, by now you'd be in deep kimchee without it, so you're gonna have to spend a couple days in stasis."

"Stasis? Like time-locked?" Hermione doubtfully asked.

Harry nodded. "Yup."

"Is it safe?"

"I've got a stasis generator I trust aboard the Lucky Dragon." Harry told her, getting to his feet. "It's Galliefrian technology, way better'n that Imperial junk, I won it off Washu in a game of Spades a while back. Come on down the hold, I'll demonstrate it." Carla likewise got up; Hermione followed the two of them down to the hold.

The stasis generator proved to be a whacking great piece of industrial-looking machinery the size of a large two-axle truck. Harry had Carla stand in front of the machine, spent a few minutes fiddling with it, then flipped a switch, causing the fidgeting slavegirl to freeze in place and her skin (and hair, and fingernails, and all of her that wasn't clothes or collar) to go mirrored.

"As you can see," Harry said, sauntering over, "A stasis field is in fact a near-perfect mirror." He casually unfastened Carla's fleece jacket, revealing that beneath it she was wearing an extremely skimpy and lacy black bra that didn't really conceal anything, and a pair of heavy handguns in shoulder holsters. "What you're seeing is actually two closely-spaced stasis fields with a gap about a thousandth the width of a human hair between them; that's why I can do this," and he put his hand against Carla's stomach and pressed as hard as he could for a few seconds, then punched her in the guts twice, "Without blowing her in half when the stasis field shuts down. If it wasn't for that isolator field, well, when the lock comes off the something experiences all the forces that were imparted on it in Planck time, so instantaneously. I've seen Washu demonstrate – she time-locked an inch-thick sheet of battle armour then got Michelle to press her hand against it as hard as she could for a couple minutes. When Washu flipped the stasis field off, it blew a hole in the armour plate the shape of Michelle's hand, and that was at Michelle's seventh birthday party."

"That's a hell of a party trick." Hermione said, dubiously contemplating the underdressed time-locked form of Carla.

"Damn straight." Harry said, dumping the jacket on the floor (it clanked) and going back to the machine's control panels. "Stasis fields are seriously fucking dangerous pieces of kit. They can be useful though – they reflect all forms of radiation; a double-skin stasis field is the most effective insulator and radiation shield in the universe. The selective use of stasis fields isolate the various Gringotts vault levels from the mantle around them, they protect the contents of orbital drop pods, they make sure the most dangerous prisoners in the galaxy can't get loose in transit, and they're what makes reactors safe – if it reaches the point of no return, the stasis field automatically kicks in, then you just gotta load reactor and stasis generator into a ship, take both to a trash belt, and boot 'em out the airlock – then stand _well_ back before the stasis generator's batteries pack in, coz it's goin' _sky-high_."

He switched the stasis field off. Carla glanced around, noticed her fleece laying on the floor, paused, looked at it, blinked, felt her shoulder, glanced down at herself, looked a touch embarrassed, and went to retrieve it.

"We'd better get moving." Harry said. "Volkmarr's expecting us. Hey, and Hermione? Don't freak out when you see him."

"I'm getting used to weird shit." Hermione slightly defensively said.

Harry smirked at her. "He's heavily cyborged, and let's just say it's function-dictates-form. He looks like half the spare parts from an industrial machine shop assembled into a roughly-humanoid eight-limbed misshapen hunchback thing dressed in a red cloak and accompanied by a couple of levitating skulls on bundles of cables and hoses plumbed into his chest. He's definitely going to be the most fucked-up thing you have ever seen, and that's saying something, innit?"

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They met the tech-adept on the concourse beyond the docking bay, this being an area that resembled a busy shopping mall crossed with the interior of a run-down naval vessel.

Volkmarr was everything Harry had said he'd be, and more.

From under his hood, a thick bundle of cables and tubes led to the blocky control-panel-looking device on his belt, from the bottom of which protruded an intricate array of cameras and sensor modules, and from the sides of which protruded thick bundles of cables leading to his pair of sensor-festooned flying skulls, one of which also bore a compact sub-machine gun; both the hands that protruded from his broad sleeves were blatantly cybernetic and composed of chunky industrial-looking pieces of machinery, with several exposed actuators. Two more arms – mechanical, and both looking more like parts from an undersized back-hoe loader but with a large pincer-like manipulator claw on the end of one, and an array of power tools on the end of the other – extended from the backs of his shoulders, with another two, smaller, tentacle-like limbs sticking up between them, one of them tipped with what looked like a small sleek blaster pistol and the other with a small four-fingered grabber. A single glowing red light could be seen in the shadow beneath that hood.

Like pretty much anyone in Earth's first-world nations, Hermione had seen her share of labors over the prior few years; since Shinohara Heavy Industries put the original demolition labors on the market, they (and their Strauss, Mercedes, JCB, Mitsubishi, Ford, and Volvo competitors) had become pretty common sights in the developed world. Therefore, she was at least passing familiar with the 'Vreet-crunch vreet-crunch vreet-crunch' noise a silicone-age civilian walker vehicle makes when it walks, and thus had something to compare the noise of Volkmarr's gait to. Each joint movement was accompanied by the buzz and click of an actuator; his metal-shod feet clanked as they contacted the deckplates.

But the thing that startled her the most was the smell of him. When she saw him, she'd expected him to smell like the engine bay of a piece of agricultural machinery; all exhaust fumes, lubricants, and spilt fuel. But he didn't; there was a faint tang of old engine oil about him, but for the main part his odour was the sweet, heavy musk of burning incense.

This outlandish figure came to a halt a few paces from her, and focused his various sensors on her.

"So, Omega Five." He said. His voice had that same odd flat tone as a computer's voice synthesizer software. "At last we meet. I have looked forwards to this encounter since I received copy of the preliminary observation report made by my esteemed colleague at Hogwarts Collegium Arcanum."

"Um." Hermione said.

"Once it transpired that you had become a retainer of the mighty Lord Stormclaw, it became at once apparent that he would bring you to me as I am the best there is." Volkmarr continued in that same flat tone. "The stabilising bond that you wear is quite insufficient. Poor design. Poor selection of materials. Poor runecraft. Poor workmanship. It is of little utility beyond as a decorative piece. From the finish I believe it was acquired from that amateur David McGilcuddy on New Australia."

"You haven't lost your touch. You've got the necessary measuring and sensing equipment?" Harry checked, cocking his head; the tech-adept made what sounded like it might be a confirming noise, so he jerked his thumb over his shoulder at the Lucky Dragon. "Let's do this thing."

"This'll be a major improvement, right?" Hermione asked.

"All the king's horses and all the king's men wish they had half the technology I have. " Volkmarr stated, then clammed up until they were in the Lucky Dragon's cargo hold and Hermione was nervously standing in front of the stasis generator; by then the tech-adept was critically examining said bulky piece of machinery

"Superb." He said. "Galliefrian technology, I believe. This is much more like the quality of equipment I expect in your hands and those of your retainers."

"Got it off Washu a while back." Harry said, fiddling with the stasis generator's controls. The tech-adept turned every sensor lens to face Harry for a long moment, then made a weird electronic noise; Harry chuckled. "Greatest scientific genius in the universe, shite at card games. Go fi-"

Hermione never heard the "-gure" because at that moment Harry activated the stasis field generator. From her perspective, the universe around her seemed to lag for a split second; she got an instant's frozen image of Harry at the controls of the stasis generator and Volkmarr stood there doing the tech-adept equivalent of gawping at him in mute shock, and then Harry was stood at a different angle and Volkmarr was gone. The Puma twins had appeared in the Lucky Dragon's hold, leaning against the wall and passing a spliff back and forth, while Carla was sat on a packing crate instead of being stood pretty much where Anna and Uni now were.

"Is that it?" Hermione asked, feeling her collar with her fingertips.

Harry shook his head. "Nah, Volkmarr got his measurements of your collar, which is now back on your neck. It'll take him a couple of days to properly tune the replacement, then we're back here and swap 'em over."

"Oh." Hermione muttered, settling herself on the packing case beside Carla. "So… are we gonna do anything in the interim?"

"Not much needing done." Harry said. "Few shops I might check out, but until Volkmarr gets back to me, we're just killing time."

"What kind of shops?" Hermione asked. "Anything interesting?"

"Well, there's a used gun dealer on this deck." Harry said. "Maybe we'll go check out what Spanish has in stock; I'm one of his regulars, he's taken to sticking any interesting pieces he gets aside for me cuz he knows I'm a collector. Then there's a jetbike shop one deck up, might as well stop past, see if Mullet's got any interesting swoops. Mebbe check past the used slave dealers next to Mullet's place, never know what Sid the Squid's managed to root up. And I feel like dropping past the Anchorhead, they always have interesting ales on tap. Hmm, might be worth checking out whether Irish Jimmy's got any interesting stock, though it's not like he can get hold of Department 44 quality hardware. Or if you'd like to check out the biggest gun shop in the League, we could head up to Deck 283 and drop past Firepower."

"Any good bookshops?" Hermione asked, digesting that.

"Yeah, there's a branch of Flourish & Blotts in the same mall as Firepower. Or if you're interested in second-hand books, there's a good place I know ten doors up from Spanish's place. Hmm, and there's a couple of alternative clothing shops roundabouts, dunno how interested you'd be but I certainly find the idea of you in some of that gear intriguing. Let's go."

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Their first port of call was of course the used gun shop. Some things never change, such as the fact that Harry Johnson was an unrepentant gun maniac.

The shop itself was built into a rectangular compartment, with a roughly L-shaped area customers could get into, lined with bulletproof-glass-fronted display cabinets loaded with a mind-boggling variety of weaponry, all of which could only be accessed from the back; the counter had one of those anti-thief mesh panels above it, and there were three blank-faced visibly-cyborged figures stood around that Hermione realised after a few moments were Old Atlantean gun servitors.

"Gudday Harry mate, looking for anything in specific?" the man behind the counter – a somewhat scruffy bearded individual who looked unnervingly like your stereotypical survivalist – said.

"Nah, getting something from Arvus Volkmarr, thought I'd have a look-see if you've got anything interesting for me while I'm waiting for him to finish setting things up." Harry replied with a shrug, idly browsing the assorted guns. "Hey, is this what it looks like?"

The survivalist rose to his feet, walked round to the indicated gun rack, extracted the gun Harry was pointing at, and passed it through the slot at the bottom of the grille with the comment, "See for yourself mate."

The gun that had attracted Harry's attention was a hulking great stubby-barrelled battle rifle with a bulky receiver, a telescoping stock, an overgrown pistol grip and a pump shotgun with the stock cut off attached to a crude-looking mount on the underslung rail. The gun's body was painted a drab shade of khaki while the rest of it was matte black.

It wasn't a very prepossessing sight.

"Er." Hermione said, unsure how to point out how unimpressive it was.

"Yeah, it is! It's an Old Atlantean bolter – thought it was the League knock-off for a moment there." Harry said. He pulled the bolter's cocking handle back, and peered into the feedway. "The breech is a bit screwed up, but it's nothing I can't fix… Holy crap, it's a Death Cats bolter; this thing's a piece of history!"

"Uh?"

"Long story in brief, when the Leaguers opened the wormhole into the past, the Death Cats chapter of Imperial Atlantean Space Marines immediately attacked them. The League managed to beat the Death Cats off, but that left them trapped on this end of the wormhole, and about the first thing they ran into was a colony mainly populated by Yig Soggog."

"What are they?"

"They're pretty freaky looking people – one of the weirder humanics. Centauroid, and their entire body's covered in tentacles – they look grey and immensely hairy, but the hair's like full-size octopus tentacles. Don't ask me what environmental pressures evolved _that_, I've got no idea. Anyway, at the time the Old Atlantean Empire was going through a bit of a Nazi phase. Any non-Atlantean sentient caught within a thousand lights of the homeworld were killed out of hand back then, and it so happens Wormgate's less than a hundred light years from the Greenscut's homeworld. Go figure. Well, while they were busy fuel-air bombing Keggle Prortik, the League basically snuck up behind them and took the Cowabunga's keel gun to their battle barge. The Leaguers captured a whole shit-load of Imperial Atlantean equipment in the process – the Death Cats were one of those chapters who're based on a whacking great self-propelled orbital platform, so their entire armoury was right there. Good thing too, before that about the only small arms in the League were bolt-action hunting rifles and double-barrel shotguns. Anyway, the Wormhole War went on for just under three years – the only reason it ended so fast was because the Ultramarines boarded a Kenti cargo transport without realising they were dealing with more than one nation, and therefore drew the Thousand Kingdoms into that nasty little pissing match. Good thing too, trench warfare sucks."

"Trench warfare? How'd that work, with orbital bombs and such like?"

Harry shrugged. "What decides any battle is space supremacy, and if nobody's got that... The Greenscuts have a lot of ships, a lot of firepower, but the League's got the LSS-002 Cowabunga and with it the biggest shotgun in the galaxy, and they've got buckshot for it, basically a shit-ton of steel formed into car-sized pellets. Using that thing on a battlefleet is like shoving the loud end of a double-barrel twelve-gauge into a rabbit's nest full of cute little baby bunnies and pulling both triggers, it's outright unsporting and sick. Anyway, it took the Kenti to tip the balance. Messy business on the whole."

"Oh right."

Harry hefted the bolter, and grinned at the survivalist.

"How much?" he asked.

"To you? Fifty dollars, mate." The shopkeeper said. Harry immediately produced a small sheaf of ten dollar bills, handed them over, and tucked the bolter under his arm.

"What's with the pump shotgun where a grenade launcher should be?" Hermione asked.

Harry snorted once again. "Well, bolters are reliable and pretty simple to operate, but I can't say the same for Greenscut underslung launchers; they're a pain to reload and their breeches tend to give out after a few hundred launches. For the first year of the Wormhole War, the League had plenty launchers and such like, but they started wearing out in droves towards the middle of the second year. Anyway some bright spark hit on welding a rail mount onto a short pump shotgun and making 12-gauge grenade shells. Pump shotguns are cheap and easy to make, and the same goes for the ammo. Check this out – this wasn't a New Australian Army gun."

"How can you tell that?" the shopkeeper asked, startled.

"The Imperial Eagle badge is still on it, it's just covered over with electrical tape then painted over the top of." Harry said. "The New Australian Army pulled the badges off the guns they captured at Keggle Prortik, but there was about a hundred captured when Ninth Company failed to storm New Tasmania. That was the only real visible difference between NAA and resistance during the first year of the war… there can't be many of these left."

"… crikey."

"How do you know all this stuff?" Hermione asked.

"I was there and then. I'm the guy who started the whole thing with defacing the aquillia since it was the best way to get the Greenscuts backs up – I crossed mine out with gunky blue paint. I was the first one who taped a magazine to the stock – we called it the lucky magazine, it meant you always had that last mag – and I'm the bright spark who welded part of a broken-down grenade launcher to a pump shotgun – at least, I'm pretty certain I was the first."

"Why are you only 'pretty certain'?" Hermione asked.

"Well, there were some pretty outrageous jury-rigs put together in the first year of the war – one whacko I knew who was stationed in Wynakerth took a bolter and an Imperial sniper rifle, cut the sniper rifle's stock off, and assembled this sort of clamp thing that held the two together with the barrels aligned, then hung a grenade launcher off the bolter. Talk about unwieldy, it was a cumbersome brute. Hell, he had this rack up one side of the damn thing you could stow six launcher grenades in, space to stow another two the other side, he'd got a bolter magazine taped to the stock most times, and a spare mag for the rifle taped to the side of it just ahead of the receiver – the damn thing looked like an arsenal. He used to set up somewhere and wait three days for that perfect shot, then when he got it he'd be straight onto the launcher, drop a Willy Pete, then take off and find somewhere else to set up and do it all over again… I picked that gun up after he got his head blown off – I've still got it back on Kendarat, it was just too weird and unique for me to let sandside bury it. Anyway, that kind of strangeness put the NAA on a big downer against do-it-yourself weaponry. Some officers wouldn't even let people tape pairs of magazines together. By the end of the second year all that sort of officers had been 'accidentally' shot in the back at about the same time as the NAA ran out of launcher grenades, so the shotguns came in as a replacement same as what they did for us resistance types the year before. Anyway, the upshot of it all is, at the beginning of the Wormhole War, the League had a load of salvaged naval equipment and a couple workshops making .303's and 12-bores; at the end of the war the League had an armaments industry. They started off making underslung shotguns to fit Atlantean-made boltguns, then moved on to making boltguns and matching ammo – in fact, the battle rifles issued to the New Australian Army today use a slightly modified copy of a Renahara-pattern boltgun mechanism, and the League's underslung grenade launcher uses a very basic pump-action shotgun mechanism and are in fact twelve-bore. If it ain't broke… you know the drill. The simplest solutions are often the best."

"I'm amazed the Space Marines didn't completely over-run the Leaguers." Hermione said; she'd seen some film-clips of the Adeptus Astartes in action, and they frankly scared the piss out of her.

Harry chuckled. "They would have, if it hadn't been for Grand Warlord Chaos. He's just a joe average human who ate the Methuselah fish, but he happens to be the most stupidly lucky life-form in known space. During the New Tasmania raid, he beat off an entire company of Death Cats, pretty much single-handedly, without realising what was going on. Didn't make much sense until I discovered he's actually got avatar status with the Lady."

"Seriously, mate?" the shopkeeper asked. "I thought he was an avatar of MG Dawg?"

"Yup, he is." Harry said with a nod. "He's one of about six people anywhere ever who're avatars of more than one Power. First off, he's an avatar of Muttley Gawdang Dawg, the god of anarchy. Second off, he's an avatar of Tsunami, the goddess of time travel, who also happens to be his wife. And last but not least, he's an avatar of the Lady. All of which kinda explains why the guy has family reunions with versions of himself from all over the timeline, can amble through the stream of fire from a Vulcan cannon without getting hit, and has an attention span of less than five seconds. Well, actually, I tell a lie. The only things that can hold his attention for more than five seconds are booze, cigarettes, his wife, one of his assorted girlfriends, his pet Twenk Zeurghnorfian, or junk food. I've never seen him remember that someone pissed him off long enough to get angry."

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Harry purchased another six assorted guns, then pretty much had to tow a suddenly annoyed and very disapproving Hermione into the slave dealer's next door, where he had a quick look around, noticed a pretty young woman with pale skin and white hair, purchased her, and took his assorted purchases (guns and girl) back to the ship, whereupon they proceeded directly to the second-hand book shop he'd mentioned, which succeeded in adequately distracting Hermione from her funk, and Harry proceeded to pay for about sixty assorted books. He then decided it was food time; they proceeded to the Anchorhead Bar and Restaurant.

This proved to be built in an enclosed balcony overlooking the Cowabunga's sixteen-kilometre-wide aquatic docking bay and the seemingly-endless ranks of spelljamming vessels (ranging in size from somewhat smaller than Harry's junk to bigger than the greatest of sea-going supertankers) that mostly filled the great water-filled basin with it's seemingly-endless ranks of piers and jetties.

As they ordered their meal (pizza for Hermione, something called volcano curry for Harry) Hermione found herself wondering what species the waitress was; the girl looked humanic, with extremely pale skin, no hair, and an odd bony crest round the back of her head.

She continued to wonder this, racking her brains as she watched the waitress go to the counter, pass the order to the barman, collect their drinks, return, and move to serve another table.

Harry touched her forearm.

"Not polite to stare." he said.

"Oh! Sorry – I was just trying to work out what species that girl is." Hermione admitted, slightly embarrassed.

"Minbari." Harry said, then shook his head. "Slave species. Kinda a sad story, really, or at least it would be if they weren't so goddamned stupid."

"Whatcha mean?"

Harry snorted. "They had some pretty weird standards, kiddo. First off, they had active stealth systems on their ships, that could be got round by an overcharged sensor scan. A scan overcharged enough to burn out lightly-shielded electronics aboard whatever was being scanned. And second off, their ships' weapon mounts could be concealed, and they thought it was a 'friendly' gesture to lock 'em to the combat position. So they run into a Clan Ash superfreighter, scan, open weapon ports. How'd you think the Am skipper reacted to someone hitting his ship with an EM burst powerful enough to blow his second officer's cybernetic heart, then readying weapons?"

"The other ship got blown out of space?" Hermione guessed.

"Nah, a Super Clyde doesn't have that kind of firepower." Harry said. "The Minbari ship got pretty shot up before they warped out, the Am truckies hauled ass for the nearest Ash navy base. Nothing came of it, of course – civvie freighter, minimal damage, not the Clanguard's problem. Or it wouldn't have been, but three days later, a Minbari warfleet dropped into the Am system nearest to the contact point – a Clan Hope agri-world – and glassed the planet. Seems they had no concept they were looking at more than one nation. They couldn't imagine that someone might possibly sell starships to other species, and they thought a war of genocide was an appropriate response to one ship getting shot up"

He shook his head. "They found themselves looking down the barrel of the Clanspace Alliance. They tried to take down everything that approached, and managed to splash a Juraiain Imperial Spacelines widebody. After that... well, the Minbari discovered that, when facing warships as opposed to lightly-armed lightly-armoured civilian transports, their ships had all the structural integrity of wet toilet paper. The Juraian Emperor was pissed; one of his swarms of cousins was aboard that liner. The Clanspace Alliance and the Juraian Navy swept the whole region. Every Minbari vessel got locked down and received a pretty direct ultimatum; surrender or die. The Ams dropped Bolos on every Minbari planet, eliminated the military, and rounded up the civvies. Ten days after the Star of Rokolushu got shot down, most of the surviving Minbari in the galaxy had been shipped off to the slave pens. That was about eight, nine thousand years back. Meh, that's what they get for thinking EMPing someone then waving a gun in their face is a friendly gesture. Can't say the Minbari have done so bad since, given that they're near-universally slaves; there's a couple hundred trillion of 'em in the galaxy today."

"Slaves, huh?" Hermione mused, glancing at the waitress again and noticing for the first time the dull metal collar round the girl's neck. "I guess she's a slave?"

"I know she's a slave. Notice the brand on her left buttock, the serial number tattoo on her chest, and the tag in her left ear?"

"Oh right." Hermione said, then frowned. "How often does that sort of thing happen? Entire species being enslaved, I mean."

"Couple times a decade." Harry said with a shrug. "Mostly because they did something stupid like glassing random planets for shits and giggles without having the firepower to deal with the response, or because they were stupid primitives and couldn't defend themselves."

"Barbaric." Hermoine muttered, fiddling with her collar. "I still can't believe such an advanced civilisation practises slavery."

"We've been over this before." Harry said, suddenly getting exasperated. "For fuck sake, you think you've ever been free? Newsflash, you've been beholden to a system your entire life. So have your parents, and their parents, and their parents before them, and so on back to the dawn of time. The system protects you, and in return for that protection you are it's slave. Look at your father. He likes playing big bad rebel biker, when he's working a well-paid nine-to-five job. He's a freaking dentist, for fuck sake! You know what that means? That means he'll slave away the best years of his life doing some soul-crushingly boring job, trying to deal with the mess people make out their teeth and getting hated for it by half of them. At least if people give me shit when I'm on the job I can blow their fucking brains out. Your father isn't free. He's a cog in the system, and if he broke civilisation's rules – rules he didn't have a part in creating, rules that are set up to benefit the people in power while everyone else bears the load – they'd lock him up. Oh sure, he gets a comfortable house in a comfortable suburb in a comfortable town in a comfortable country on a comfortable planet, but he sure as hell isn't free. You don't hunt and gather for your food – the nice man in the lorry brings it to the nice man in the shop, and if you can't give the nice man in the shop some of those worthless bits of paper we call money for it, you starve."

He gave her a level stare.

"I can show you freedom - and she's a hard bitch."

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After they'd had their food (a pleasant meal in Hermione's case, and an eye-wateringly pungent curry that very literally made smoke come out of Harry's nose and ears as well as putting a huge shit-eating grin on his face) and enough booze that Hermione got decidedly drunk, Harry dragged her off to one of the 'alternative' (read: fetish) clothing stores whereupon he spent the best part of three hours making her get increasingly embarrassed by the assortment of outfits he conned her into trying on (many of which he purchased, much to her increasing embarrassment) and then they headed back to the Lucky Dragon, had dinner and more beer, and Hermione went to bed in the cabin he'd assigned her.

She was a bit hungover the next morning, but that was soon cured courtesy of a shot of hangover killer, whereupon they ate a decidedly unhealthy fried breakfast, Harry got her a touch drunk again, and their shopping trip resumed; a repeat performance in the other 'alternative clothing store', then a visit to the bike shop, lunch (and more beer) at the Anchorhead, another visit to the second-hand bookshop, and then they were about to head up to the big mall on Deck 283, only they had a change of plans when Harry got a call from Volkmarr saying the work was complete, so they went back to the Lucky Dragon, where they met up with the tech-priest, and Hermione once more found herself subjected to the stasis field.

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Hermione examined herself. As she'd half-expected, she was stark naked aside from her collar. Noticing something, she glanced at her right wrist; there was a wristband round it. A quick check revealed her old wristband had been replaced, and her ankles likewise sported anklets.

She contemplated her reflection for a long moment.

The new collar was visibly different; the metal was even brighter, and it's surface was inlaid with a delicate tracery of hair-fine circuit-like lines and whorls of tiny runes. The lettering that declared her to belong to Harry had gained a third language that she recognised (and could in fact read) in the form of the Old Atlantean language usually called High Gothic, and a fourth she recognised as Seletic, and it was now on a separate piece of metal – a cast silver plate, fixed into place via some invisible medium and the letters formed from delicate etching in the surface of the casting. The bands round her wrists and ankles matched the collar; that same bright metal with those same lines and rune weaves. All were fastened in the same manner; an inbuilt padlock, again adorned with those circuit-like lines and runic patterns, and each had a ring affixed to it, of the sort one would use to attach a chain.

"Isn't this a bit much?" she asked, critically examining the left wristband.

Well, actually, she decided there wasn't much point kidding herself. It was a shackle.

"Efficiency." Volkmarr said. "A set such as what you now wear may provide far more stabilisation influence than simply a collar."

"I guess so." Hermione said, returning her attention to her reflection.

"I trust the work meets your approval." Volkmarr checked; Hermione nodded distractedly, and the tech-adept turned Inquisitor let out a flat electronic sound that may have been supposed to be a pleased noise. "Good. My examination of your aura and soul has opened new avenues of research. I believe that the knowledge for which I now search will enable me to create for you even more efficient designs of aura stabiliser."

"How much is all this costing Harry?"

"Accurate data is a payment worth more than all the Thrones in the Imperium." Volkmarr said. "Under most circumstances, work this detailed would entail a substantial sum, even to one as blessed as the father of a Senshei and as pious as a man who once saved the life and soul of the High Princess. Yet the data I have gained from this transaction is worth far more than the time and materials it took to create these bonds. Now, I must attend to my studies. Efficiency is in itself a virtue, and lengthy discussion is not an efficient use of time. I will perchance see you again; the blessing of the Ommnissiah be with you both."

And, with that, he turned and stalked out, his cybernetic joints whirring and clicking as he walked.

Harry wandered over and casually handed Hermione a folded set of clothing, causing her to notice her nakedness, go red, and cover herself with her hands.

"That Volkmarr guy was _creepy_." she said, giving him a faintly annoyed look as she began dressing herself; the clothing he'd presented her was one of the slightly less outrageous outfits from those 'alternative' clothing stores.

Harry nodded. "A bit. That's the way of it with high-level tech-adepts; Volkmarr's more machine than man. He's ninety-nine percent cybernetics; hell, even a large part of his _brain_ is cybernetic. Thing is, if you've got data a tech-priest wants, they'll _always_ be willing to trade, and they'll _always_ play it straight with you; to people like Volkmarr, the acquisition of knowledge is a dedicational act, like a prayer or something, and gaining it unjustly would sully the purity of the information itself. They're a trifle superstitious."

Once Hermione was actually wearing clothes of some description (a fetishy-looking and extremely tight shiny black bodysuit which exposed her entire cleavage and had suspicious zips over her breasts and between her legs, a corset, tight black cargo trousers, her gunbelt, and high-heeled knee-high boots, she'd never have put that bodysuit on if she wasn't still somewhat drunk) they went straight to the Lucky Dragon's bridge where Harry got clearance for departure, Hedwig took great glee in laying in a course for Earth, and they turned the bows for the stars.

**-/- End Chapter -/-**

AN –

'Listed' is the term used to describe a ship (of the aquatic type) that floats leaned over to one side or the other. Note that list is only ever side-to-side; if her stern is lower, she's 'Down at the stern' and if her bow is lower she's 'Down at the bows'. Leaning so the left side is lower than the right is 'Listing to port', while leaning so the right side is lower than the left is 'Listed to starboard'. If she's listing in a calm sea, it's usually a sign that she's damaged in some way; a stationary boat is meant to float level, perhaps slightly down at the stern if it's a very small vessel. In short, listing is a bad thing as it usually denotes a floating deathtrap.

Snowy owls do not hoot. They make assorted squawking and beak-clattering noises; the best description for the squawk I've been able to think of is 'Prek', and it's one I borrowed from someone on the Caer Azkaban mailing list. Go look up snowy owls on Wikipedia if you don't believe me – there's a link on there to recordings of snowy owl noises. Oh, and Hedwig is there just because.

For the perfect example of that 'Vreet-crunch' noise, consult your local Patlabor movie. My expectations of the sound made by a moving mech has been permanently stained by the Shinohara Heavy Industries AV98 Ingram, in particular the sequence aboard the Ark during the closing stages of the first Patlabor movie. If you haven't seen the Patlabor movies, do so at the soonest available opportunity. OK, so Noa Izumi has an annoyingly shrill voice, but the whole idea of a Tom Clancy-esque high-tech thriller masquerading as a big robot anime works startlingly well.

A real-world example of a pump-action underslung shotgun on an assault rifle exists in the form of the M870 Masterkey; a specially modified Remington M870 shotgun that attaches to the bottom of an M16 (or variant) much like an M203 underslung grenade launcher; as with the M203, it entails using the rifle's magazine as a makeshift pistol grip. It's typically used by SWAT-type units for blowing locks, thus the name 'Masterkey', and I guess that way the SWAT team's shotgun man can also have an M4 carbine in his hands at the same time as he's holding his shottie. An example can be seen in the first Predator movie; as far as I remember it's used by the Native American dude… and this time this note actually belongs on this chapter. Blame a slight last-minute change in the sequence of events coupled with me forgetting to alter the notes; the scene in question was originally going to be part of chapter 21 of 'Headmaster's Socks'.

Mentioning the Lady's actual name is a bad idea, as she'll then be forced to desert you. She's one of the few deities nobody worships – a few gamblers have tried, and all of them wound up dead within the week.

I may or may not eventually write the story of the Jedi Civil War. Things would really diverge from the canon Star Wars original-trilogy round about the showdown where Luke discovers Darth Vader is his father, as it's during that exchange that the Top Dog Luke Skywalker told Vader he was 'a slave to darkness'. Note that the only part of the whole Star Wars milieu I'm currently well-versed in is the KOTOR/KOTOR2 computer games. Yes, Revan is going to get screen-time sooner or later, same goes for Bastilla and HK47, quite probably a few others once I've had a replay of the games. I've never actually seen the whole of any Star Wars movie, but I know enough to get by.

Likewise, I may eventually detail the mess on Alderaan that Harry and Ben have both referenced at various points; as yet I'm unsure of the nature of said mess, but it involves a philosophical disagreement between Harry and Luke Skywalker very nearly leading to one of them being killed by the other, only being broken up courtesy of Leia and Chewbacca. (Interesting thought; why does Chewbacca have a name he can't pronounce?)

Doghead Out.


	12. Chapter 12

Well, it's been a long time coming but it's finally here; the completed final chapter of 'Lunatic Scientist'.

So, without more ado...

**This ain't no self-insert fic.**

**This ain't no slash fic neither.**

**This is Top Dog.**

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_Take me down to the paradise city_

_Where the grass is green and the girls are pretty_

_Oh won't you please take me home..._

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Five miles to the east of the village of Torridon in the northwest Highlands of Scotland, in the midst of Glen Torridon, at the foot of the mighty wall of rock named Ben Aigh, stands a single lonely house two hundred years old.

That solitary building is the home of a pair of 'Incomers' – people who didn't grow up in the area – by the name of Richard and Caroline Roberts. They live with their young son, Stanley, age five, and their teenage foster-daughter, Lily Evans.

Lily is substantially older than most teenage girls. In her mid-thirties, she suffered a severe head-injury, and was left an amnesiac; her amnesia was so total that her mind was that of a newborn baby.

That was sixteen years ago. In the sixteen years since, Lily has gone through each of the processes a child goes through; learning to speak and walk, learning to feed and dress herself, attending school – and all as a child in a woman's body.

By appearance, she doesn't look normal either. She has long, fluted ears with pointed tips; they stick out sideways from her head, drooping a bit at the tips, and the left one has two thumb-sized holes through it. Her hair is red; not the muddy orange of so-called 'redheads', as red as freshly-spilt blood. And she has a long, highly mobile, catlike tail, banded in black and that same blazing red as her hair.

They have their up times and their down times, like any family – but for the main part they are a happy and comfortable family, wealthy enough that there is no need for either parent to slave their guts out at some thankless job, living in a pleasant home amidst the natural splendour of the Highlands of Scotland, with plentiful food on the table and fuel for the fire – they are warm throughout the most ferocious of winter nights, cool at the height of summer, and they are never pushed to afford spares and fuel for the family car.

They have called that place home since 1969, and they are adamant that they will never leave.

On this particular pleasant afternoon in mid July, Richard was up the back of the croft repairing a fence, Caroline was pottering about in the kitchen, Stanley was utterly engrossed in his Lego, and Lily was laying on her bedroom floor with an artpad, ignoring the muffled thunder of the big old engine she'd heard drawing up to the house as she once again drew the face that endlessly haunted her dreams.

It was a man's face, rough-looking with ragged hair, mutton-chop sideburns, a sarcastic smile, and intense eyes, and each time she drew that face, when she looked at it, she found herself feeling safer, feeling loved – feeling like a tiny piece of something better than home had come back to her; something she had never seen but always missed.

"Lily dear, there's some people to see you."

Lily looked up from her art-pad, wondering why her foster-mother sounded so freaked out. Caroline Roberts was usually a seriously centred person; having been an undercover cop in Ireland during the worst of the Troubles tends to have either that effect or to leave a body seriously screwed up.

Shrugging it off, Lily rose to her feet and clumped through to the living room.

She stopped dead in her tracks when she saw the trio who were waiting for her. One was a short, fairly plain girl with frizzy faintly ginger hair and a nervous expression. The second was a six foot sandy-haired catgirl with bony insectile wing-like things protruding over her shoulders.

The third, however, was the one who grabbed Lily's attention. He was well over six feet tall, with an thletic frame, an intense expression, lizard-like jade-green eyes, a face startlingly like that she'd drawn so many times, wild black hair, and long fluted pointy ears exactly like Lily's, only with somewhat less piercings and without the pair of massive holes.

That said, he was much taller than her instincts told her he should be, and certain of his features seemed somehow wrong.

"Who… who are you?" she asked, taking a step backwards. "Do… do I know you?"

"You used to, but I didn't look much like this last time you saw me." The man said; he sounded as tired as his eyes looked, and his accent was a nightmare mish-mash.

"That was before my accident, right?" Lily checked. The man nodded.

"Yeah." he said. "I… shit, I'm not sure how to put this." He stared at his hands for a long moment; they were shaking. "I think you ought to sit down; this is probably going to come as a shock."

Lily dubiously sat down, flicking her tail out the way as she seated herself, then sat there nervously watching him; he watched her right back.

"Do you know the details of what happened to you?" he asked.

"Not really, no." Lily admitted. "I mean, I know I lost my memories, but…"

The man nodded.

"You were shot, in the head, leaving you with severe brain damage. Nine-tenths of your brain was burned out; it should have killed you, but, shit, you're one _tough_ lady, I guess your inner tigress just wouldn't let you lie down and die… Lily, were you aware that you're a mother?"

"No." Lily admitted. "I… were you the father?"

The man shook his head.

"No." he said. "The only parts they ever found of your husband was about half of his foot and a huge quantity of blood."

"Then who are you?" she asked.

"My name's Harry Potter." The man said. "I'm your son."

It was lucky indeed that he'd got her to sit down, because, for the first time in her life, Lily fainted dead away.

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**Disclaimer: We apologise for any inconvenience.**

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**Top Dog: Enter the Fnords**

**Intermission 1: Harry Johnson and the Lunatic Scientist**

**A Doghead13 / United Galaxies fanfic**

**Written & produced by Calum J 'Doghead13' Wallace**

**Preread by the CaerAzkaban Yahoo group**

**Brought to you by Hairy Scottish Git Productions, GMBH**

**This is not a drill.**

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**Chapter 12: Playing with fire.**

**(In which our hero & heroine finally have a much-needed talk.)**

Twenty minutes later, Lily was conscious again and sat there clutching a nice cup of tea like it was her sole link with reality as Harry quietly explained the events that had led to this.

"I survived. Voldemort was blown into a wet red smear; it basically exorcised him out of his own body. Nobody knows why that curse didn't kill me; it's always been a hundred percent effective. It's lethal through half an inch of battle armour; that's equivalent to a foot of high-tensile steel. I reckon either it just wasn't my time, or maybe Death had the day off, I dunno." Harry sighed. "In a metaphorical sense, your son died that day and I'm all that's left of him."

"So… what happens now?" Lily asked.

Harry handed her the envelope he'd been toying with.

"Usually this would be accompanied by a member of the Collegium staff, in your case probably the old fart himself." He said. "But let's just say he and I had some rather tense words and after I pulled my E-Mag on him he backed down and stopped interfering."

The letter proved to be an invite, addressed to Lily, from someone called 'Sir Albus P W B Dumbledore MBE DSO VC', offering her a place at something called 'Hogwarts Collegium Arcanum'.

"Um." She said.

"In case you were wondering, you'll be attending under a partial pseudonym ." Harry said. "You'll be called Johnson because of the identity I'm attending the Collegium under; we're going to make everyone think you're my little sister, because I've got a bit of a rep and that way the bastards are less likely to dare lay a fucking finger on you. Albus Dumbledore is the old fart; don't trust him, and if his eyes go twinkly when he's talking to you, for God sake punch him in the mouth because that's him trying to read your mind."

"... that's not very nice."

Harry shook his head.

"Lily... I am not a nice person." he said. "I'm a mercenary gunman. You realise that means I kill people for a living, right? Nice happy fuzzy people do not get into my line of work, or rather, if they do they rapidly stop being nice happy fuzzy people and become cynical old bastards like me, either that or they stop breathing real quick."

"But... why would you get into that sort of thing?"

"That's a long and frankly rather boring story." Harry said, shrugging. "At age sixteen I was a potential psychopath with post-traumatic stress disorder and serious issues relating to trust. I didn't snap out of it until the first time I held a gun in my hands, squeezed the trigger, and saw some bastard's head explode the other side of the sights. And hell, it's good work if you can hack it. You get to travel to far-off exotic places, meet fascinating people, and blow the ever-living shit out of 'em. The pay's great, you get to pick your own hours, and you'll never go hungry because as long as there are two people alive, I guarantee it, someone is going to want someone else dead."

"How can you just... kill people?"

"It's not hard." Harry said, his voice dropping to a snarl. "How can I kill people? How the hell can I _not_ kill people when there's so damn many morons, paedophiles, rapists, wannabe Saurons, organ-leggers, drooling psychos, child abusers, hired thugs, people stupid enough to piss off a dragon – I'm talking total wastes of skin who _deserve_ to be splattered all over the scenery. Someone's got to pull the trigger on those bastards, and until this galaxy is a place worth living in, that someone's gonna be me."

Lily sat there, digesting that, for a long moment.

"Harry," she said, "Can I, uh, talk to your friends in private." She indicated the pair of girls who'd accompanied her apparent son.

Harry nodded.

"I'll be outside." he said. "Having a cigarette."

"Smoking's bad for you."

"Yeah yeah, I know. Happens that I regenerate the damage, and these boys help keep my head level." He tapped his cigarette packet, smirked, winked, and sauntered out.

An awkward silence followed, Lily contemplating the pair of girls.

"Um, hi." she said. "I'm Lily Arieth Evans."

"I'm Hermione Granger." the human-looking girl said. She had an English accent. "And this is Aria R'hara'tath."

"Hello." Aria said; she had a pleasant husky contralto voice with an exceptionally weird almost-but-not-quite Asian accent.

"So, what's the story?" Hermione asked.

"... what's Harry like? As, you know, boys go?"

Aria let out a noise halfway between a laugh and a sound like a tiger coughing, and shook her head.

"I cannot say I truly know." she said. "But I do know that his honour is impeccable, and he has earned himself the trust of my father and my elder half-brother, neither of whom trust easily. My brother S'tarak'hai is a Thousand Kingdoms Special Forces operative, as am I, while my father is the supreme commander of Her Radiant Majesty's Armed Forces and personal bodyguard to Her Radiant Majesty, Queen Rialia the Twelfth; it is a part of our job to distrust the unknown as we never know when it may become our duty to shoot at it."

"Harry's a pretty messed-up guy." Hermione said, giving Aria a faintly bemused look. "I'm not really surprised, with everything he's seen, everything he's done... What we call hell, he calls just another day at the office. He's... he's a hero through and through."

Aria nodded solemnly.

"My father and brother first met Harry on the occasion on which Princess Zarie – our queen's youngest daughter – was kidnapped by a foreign power. Harry became involved in the rescue operation; I am unsure how, I have never been told. He was instrumental in the rescue of the Princess, and saved my brother's life in the process." She reached over her shoulder and rapped her knuckles on the hilt of her sword. "This is a First Legion warblade. One might only earn the right to bear one of these blades in two fashions; one must either serve for four years in active combat in Her Radiant Majesty's Armed forces then receive an offer for First Legion selection and succeed in passing the selection process which, although I might perhaps sound boastful, is the second toughest Special Forces selection process in the galaxy – or one must take the difficult option and do Her Radiant Majesty a favour that cannot ever be truly repaid. Perhaps you noticed that my future husband bears a blade like this upon his back; he earned it the day he brought Princess Zarie safely home. He has never been a member of Her Radiant Majesty's Armed Forces, but he holds a Thousand Kingdoms citizenship and he is regarded as a national hero upon my homeworld."

"At first all you see when you look at him is the big bad mercenary." Hermione mused. "You see the killer reputation, the guy Asinara clanners glance over their shoulders before talking about. But, well, under all that... look, I know he makes out that he doesn't give a damn, but I know, oh God I know, if someone tries to hurt one of his people he'll be down on the bastards like a ton of bricks, and, well, since you're his mum you're one of his people by default. And... look, I don't know Harry's past but I know Harry and I think I might, kinda, you know, care about him, right? He needs you, Lily. Apart from his daughter, you're the only family worth the term he's got left."

(Six hundred miles away, in London, a boy named Dudley Dursley sneezed)

"Please don't break Harry's heart." Hermione said. "I know he's trying to drive you away – he always does that because he's scared of losing anyone else – but he needs you. I know it's got to feel really weird, but you're his mum and he needs someone who'll hug him and tell him everything's going to be okay, because _he's never had that_."

"You're in love with him, aren't you?" Lily asked her.

Hermione flinched.

"I'm not good enough for him." she said. "Why would he want boring old bookish frizzy-haired me?"

Aria let out a humourless bark of laughter.

"Stop attempting to lie to yourself." she said. "When the Queen asked about you, Harry replied that, and I quote, 'It may surprise you to learn that some of us can see past the Omega-weapon stamp on Hermione's dossier, and some of us care about more than her aura.', though I confess I did not catch any more of that conversation as Mother had me watching my youngest siblings and they are currently teething. Harry cares very deeply about you, Hermione."

Hermione very visibly did her best to shake the gloom off, smiling wanly.

"I hope so." she said. "I really do."

Lily sat there, digesting all of that.

"What's an Omega weapon?" she asked.

"One of the top ten most powerful weapons within known space." Aria told her. "Miss Granger here just so happens to occupy the fifth position on that list."

"And before you ask what that means, it means my aura apparently produces more power than an exploding star." Hermione snapped. "I dunno if I believe it, but Harry definitely believes it and so do all sorts of governments and that's that, because Harry owns me he's a one-man galactic equivalent of a nuclear power; hi, I am a thermonuclear device."

"... okay, I'm even more freaked out now." Lily remarked.

"Do not worry about it." Aria advised. "You are as it happens Harry's mother. Therefore, you are close to the top of his top-ten list of people whom nobody is allowed to harm."

"Ever been in a room with a killing machine that's decided it likes you and anyone who fucks with you is so dead they'll be able to bury them in a matchbox?" Hermione asked.

"Well, no, I can't say I have." Lily admitted.

"Yes you have, Harry was in here less than five minutes ago." Hermione gave Lily a hopeful smile. "He'll change the world for you, and I'll be right there helping him all the way."

"But why?" Lily asked.

"Because I love Harry and I want him to be happy, and he'll be less unhappy if you're happy, okay?" Hermione told her.

"... that was not very coherent." Aria muttered.

Lily nodded, expression distant.

"Okay." she said. "I... aw, the heck with it. I'll do this."

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It was four weeks since it had last rained (therefore you could tell there was something weird going on) and the south-east of England was as dry as a bone; there hadn't been a cloud in the sky above Swindon for coming on a month, aside from the great stinking plumes of diesel smoke blasting from the exhausts of trucks and railway locomotives alike.

The road-train was parked in the truck parking space at Memsbury service station between M4 junctions 14 and 15, all four engines ticking over, their vibrations lifting dust from the tarmac and the drivers of myriad Leyland DAF's, Iveco Fords, Volvos, Scanias and Mercs giving the behemoth awed looks; for every last one of the many passing truckers, it was the biggest rig they had ever seen.

Two trailers was, in Britain, exceptional. This monster had twelve, each unnervingly long, attached to a tractor unit that made the typical British tractor look like a toy.

Without warning, the giant's engines let out a ferocious roar; smoke and fire blew from each of the many exhaust stacks down the long line of trailers, and it began to move, rolling towards the onramp for the M4 eastbound at little more than a walking pace.

Four gearboxes clunked and air brakes hissed, and the monster began to gather pace, it's tractor nudging into traffic while the rearmost trailer was still way the Hell up the back of the service station forecourt; a Drummonds Distribution driver had to stand on his brakes as the titan swung it's hulking prow into his path.

There was another thump from the gearboxes, and another blast of smoke and fire from the road-train's exhausts as the engine's roar chose a deeper note and was joined by the thunder of heavy metal rock music; plenty of drivers recognised the track as Iron Maiden's 'Be Quick or be Dead' within a heartbeat.

Up in the titan's cockpit, Hermione Allison Granger glanced across at her sort-of-boyfriend, sort-of-master; one Harry Johnson. Her neck was currently connected to his left wrist by a chain leash, something she wasn't quite sure about.

He was grinning broadly as he put the hammer down and let the engines roar; it was obvious that he loved the big-rig. Hermione had seen him operate way faster machines, even on wheels, and substantially heavier, but the only machine she knew which put a smile like this on his face was a high-performance jetcycle, and she savoured it.

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They rolled into London at ten in the evening, on the dot, Harry using the massive bludgeon that was the road-train to plough his way through the traffic. Their destination was an old warehouse near Victoria Docks, and with it one of his small network of truck-sized subspace doors and Kendarat beyond.

Having driven through the subspace door, they were on the rim of Mount K'rath'han, at the northern end of the plains across which R'harash'gai – the River of Angels – flowed, and with it, six hundred miles from where they'd arrived on-world, the city at the Mouth of the River of Angels – R'harash'gai't'rath, seat of the queens of the Thousand Kingdoms of Kendarat and heart of one of the greatest superpowers in known space.

And, here on Kendarat, it was mid-winter. As the rig raced south across the Valley of Angels, snow burst in great clouds from beneath the knobbly tyres, the headlamps on for all it was mid-afternoon and the wipers slamming back and forth as the clouds tried their best to part truck and road in a great white volley.

"How's your Kentare coming along?" Harry asked, eyes fixed on the snowy road.

"It's still pretty pathetic." Hermione admitted. "I only know a handful of words – I've hardly had a chance to work on it since, oh Christ, Easter?"

Harry nodded, had a root around in his jacket, and came out with what looked like a comms set – a pair of earphones attached to a throat mike and wired into a small black plastic box like a walkie-talkie.

"Universal translator." he said, plugging a cable from one of the truck's onboard computers and into the handset. "Here – I'll lock it to English-Kentare translation."

Hermione nodded, her eyes never lifting from the snow-covered tarmac.

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In the city of R'harash'gai't'rath, the sun was just touching the horizon.

There was about a foot of snow on the ground, and more forecast by morning; in most places it had been mounded into heaps by 3-axle Mentler Sarvek trucks fitted with snowploughs. It clung to the sides of buildings, piled in great heaps along the central reservations of the city's broad streets, built up on the tops of rubbish bins and post boxes, and formed a cheerful little hat atop each and every streetlight and roadsign. The myriad vehicles – aircars and groundwheelers alike – that thronged the streets had coatings of downy snow on their upper parts, and every building sported a thick tranquil layer atop it's roof.

Seated in the spacious cab as the road-train rolled slowly through the streets, Hermione couldn't help but notice how most of the people she was seeing weren't dressed in a manner fit for the sub-zero temperatures outside, and that they and the traffic were largely flowing in the same direction, so thick that Harry was forced to drive at a crawl.

Over it all hung an air of anticipation. Many of the people were carrying bags or holdalls or backpacks visibly stuffed to bursting with drinks, probably intoxicating, and each and every one of them had the look of someone looking forwards to a party. Some were carrying great raggedy branches, old pallets, or random chunks of wood; more than half of the many, many utes or open-back trucks she'd seen had their loadbeds stacked to overflowing with scrap timber as well as yelling boozing Kenti. As far as the eye could see (even with the commanding viewpoint afforded by the New Aussie rig's towering cab) they streamed into and through the city from every direction in an uncountably vast horde.

Finally, as the snow began to fall once more, the road-train reached the head of a long tree-lined avenue, the buildings along it's sides the smallest and oldest-looking Hermione had yet seen in either of her two visits to this teeming metropolis, and there she found herself looking at what was possibly the largest piece of flat open ground she had ever seen in her life, stretching so far that the falling snow made it impossible to so much as glimpse the far end; she got the feeling the entirety of Bristol could have fitted there with room to spare.

Onto this vast plane Harry directed the rig, the two-hundred-seventy-ton titan's wheels ploughing through the slush as he directed it through the crowds of people and vehicles, finally halting the road-train at one end of a long formation (in line abreast) of such monstrous tractor-trucks.

Even just looking at them, she could tell these were a mixture of hobby vehicles and working rigs, differentiated by little details such as wear and tear on the cab-side steps, heat-discolouration on exhaust stacks, lived-in cabs, worn tyres, and slight cosmetic damage to bull-bars; aside from those tell-tale signs of use, both hobby and work rigs were just as perfectly turned out, and there were convivial groups of Kenti truckers dotted here and there, the odd non-Kenti mingling with them, drinking and chattering about this and that. A short distance away, she could see a similar vast assemblage of motorbikes, jetcycles, monowheels and bikers, likewise mingling among their vehicles, and many of them setting up tents. There were skyscraper-sized monitors dotted around, each about a mile apart, and myriad pickup trucks, art cars and motor scooters were moving around just about everywhere; here and there, people were building bonfires.

And, over it all, was that muted buzz of excited anticipation.

"This is amazing." she said. "There's so many people..."

Harry chuckled. "You're looking at about nine tenths of the population of R'harash'gai't'rath, along with a good two thirds of the population of the entire River of Angels area."

"Harry, just how big is this... flat place?"

"It's called Queen's Park." Harry explained. "It's octagonal, sixty-five miles to a side, centred on the Thousand Kingdoms war memorial. There's only about a dozen bigger flat public spaces in known space."

"How far is it from here to your mansion?"

"Two hundred twelve miles as the fuzzball flies." Harry said, shrugging. "About three hundred ninety by motorway. Quadruple the driving time if you head through the city centre, but cut the mileage to two hundred sixty."

"... I'm trying to get a handle on how this city is laid out since, you know, it's where you live." Hermione told him.

"The whole city's shaped like a hollow figure-of-eight." Harry said, with the latest in a long line of flippant shrugs. "One half's centred on this, the other half on the palace district, which is itself centred on the White Tower. The River of Angels runs through about halfway between Queen's Park and the palace district, so straight through the middle of the thin part of the figure-of-eight. There's two headlands extending south from the figure-of-eight, one each side of the river; on the west coast of the river there's the starport, on the east coast there's Rialia Base, that's the central military depot for Her Radiant Majesty's Armed Forces. This city makes London or even Tokyo look like spots on an arse the size of God; it could swallow both of 'em whole, and they'd rattle around."

"How can any police force manage a crowd this big?"

"I honestly have no idea at all. Probably helps that nine tenths of the police force of this planet are in plain clothes and mingling with this crowd. Probably also helps that there are likely less than a thousand people here who don't have a multitude of ancestors named on the monolith at the centre of this park, and it probably helps even more that a good third of 'em have a brother or sister named on that memorial." Harry shook his head yet again. "I have a dozen relatives named on that memorial. It lists everyone who has ever been killed in combat in Her Radiant Majesty's service, and the letters used are half a millimetre tall on a monolith bigger'n the Empire State Building. S'tarak'hai has one dead relative in the last ten generations of his family who isn't named there – the lucky bitch died at home in her own bed. I don't know about Tara, but I guarantee she has over a thousand ancestors listed on that memorial – she has to, she's a Kenti. Hell, Michelle's mother is on that thing. Your uncle Stanley's got three relatives on that thing. There's five Weaselys up there, eight Potters, four Dumbledores, nineteen Zabinis, even a couple of Malfoys."

A break in the clouds and snow blew over them, and Harry pointed at the dark needle on the horizon, stained orange by the dying light of day.

"There it is. The fallen heroes of the Thousand Kingdoms... no park or memorial can be grand enough to commemorate those men and women."

Hermione noted another garishly-decorated road-train drawing to a halt beside Harry's rig, right as someone banged on Harry's cab door and caused him to wind down the window; Hermione turned the universal translator on.

"Aha! Johnson! Good to see you, bro!" a male Kenti voice rumbled; peering over Harry, Hermione found herself looking at an eight-foot tiger-hued catman dressed in combat trousers, denim jacket, combat boots and Kenworth baseball cap, whose lips appeared to be out of sync.

"Good to see ya too, Tark." Harry said, leaning out the cab and shaking the hulking catman's extended hand; now his lips had gone out of sync. "Where's our bonfire? I've got thirty-five tons of scrap pallets in the third car back – I hope Theria brought her forkie?"

"Of course I did!" a pleasant tenor voice, similar to Tara's but with a different accent, called across.

"Our fire is close to S'rath'naia's rig." 'Tark' said. "Say, I do not recognise your friend?"

"Man, I swear I'll forget my own head onea these days... Hermione, this is G'ral'taraka N'alat'yai, but everyone calls him Tark because he's a redneck. The big lout's the main man among the truck-modifiers here on Kendarat; hell, he built my rig. Tark, this is Hermione Granger. Don't worry about her expression, she's an Earther and she's still getting used to this shit."

Tark laughed, startling Hermione when the universal translator translated the Kenti cough-laughter into the sound humans make when laughing. "Guess you have not ever seen a crowd this size, eh kid?"

"No, I haven't." Hermione said. "It's taking a lot of getting used to."

Tark nodded.

"If anyone gives you pills, do not take them." he said. "Tell one of us, and we will set things straight. Oh, and do not lose track of where the rigs are; it is all too easy to get lost in the crowd that is building."

"Won't be a problem." Harry said, indicating where Hermione's leash was strapped to his wrist. "Right, let's get that wood unloaded."

He heaved the door open; the Puma twins seemed to flow over the backs of the seats as he handed Hermione down.

"I should've brung a jacket." she grumbled. "It's bloody perishing out here."

Tark let out a tremendous roar of laughter as he glanced at his watch.

"Do not worry, little one." he said, still chuckling. "In about half of one of your hours, we will warm ourselves up with a small fire."

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"Small fire?" was the only thing Hermione could think of to say when she saw the massive pile of wood. It was perhaps twice the size of Harry's road-train, neatly stacked, and largely composed of damaged pallets; two dozen Kenti were busying themselves pouring a liquid that smelt of extremely strong booze over the heap – probably alco-fuel.

Tark grinned at her expression.

"That is a year's worth of scrap wood from one hundred and fifty-seven truckers, lass." he said. "But compared to the main fire, it is small."

Harry's hand landed on her shoulder and tugged her to one side; a machine like an overgrown under-engined jetcycle with forklift forks on one end hummed it's way past, maybe a foot or two from where Hermione had been standing.

"Careful there, kid." the Kenti woman at the grav-forklift's controls called over. "Those forks would go through you like a warblade through a Norf."

"Sorry." Hermione called back; the woman smiled and waved, and proceeded to carefully position the pallet of scrap wood on the top of the mound.

"Hey, Theria!" Harry shouted; the woman brought the grav-forklift to a halt beside them.

"What is up?" she asked.

"I've brought some beer." Harry told her. "It's in Number Three car; any chance of yanking it over to our beer tent once you're done with the wood?"

"Sure. Hey, and can I plug my forkie into your generators? She will need a charge once I am done unloading everyone, and my charger has packed in."

"Go for it; you know where to find the hookup."

"Thanks."

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A quarter an hour later, the two cargo trailers of the road-train were unloaded. Thirty-five pallets of wood onto the fire and fourteen of booze into the beer tent – a whacking great oval big-top style thing set out to one side of the lead truck of the line – had been lifted from Harry's road-train's cargo trailers, and at least fifty or sixty more rigs had drawn up in that line-abreast formation.

By this time, Harry and Hermione, along with a dozen Kenti she'd been introduced to but couldn't remember the names of, were crammed into the observation dome that was built into the roof of the first power trailer on Tark's rig (the most flambouyantly-decorated truck Hermione had ever seen) and were drinking beer, chatting, and in the case of four a dozen of them, playing a card game called Pazzac for spliffs.

"I just can't get a proper handle on just how, well, big this city is." Hermione mused, enjoying the commanding view afforded by the cupola.

"Well, within two kilometers of us is as many people as the entire populations of London, Tokyo and New York put together." Harry told her. "The total population of this city is higher than that of China; there are almost two billion people call R'harash'gai't'rath home. You know the way some cities on Earth have a 'Chinatown' or whatever?"

"Of course."

"So does R'harash'gai't'rath. There are nearly two million humans of Chinese descent in this crowd, and they call this city home. You can say the same for pretty much any Earther nation, for the Clans – there's half a million Saotome clanners who were born in this city within the last fifty years, this city has more people with the surname 'Saotome' than the entirety of Earth – hell, I only really started to get a handle on just how big this city is until the time I was hanging out at the city spaceport asking what the different bulk freighters I was watching land were carrying, and I was informed that, 'That one is transporting half of the city's supply of cheese for today'."

"... what?"

"There's a Super Clyde loaded with a megaton of food touches down in this city every thirty-five seconds, and even still, if that supply ever stopped, those people you're looking at are one week away from starvation."

"... are you serious?"

"Of course he is." Tark provided, highly amused. "Young lady, this city plays host to more truck-drivers than your entire homeworld."

"A bulk freighter lands at R'harash'gai't'rath Interstellar once every seven seconds." Harry added. "Average turn-around time is thirty-five minutes, average cargo mass, approximately one million tons. A seventeen-thousand-ton freight train departs that spaceport once every one and a half seconds. Two hundred and twelve rigs leave that spaceport every second. One cargo plane every two and a half seconds. This planet gulps down the total production of two hundred and fifty agri-worlds, and it's far from the hungriest planet in the galaxy. Hell, that's not taking anything but food into account. Wristwatches, for example. This planet consumes a ton of watches per minute. Six hundred groundcars in the same time. Fifty trucks. Ninety jetcycles. One thousand ninety-three aircars. One railway locomotive, fifty-three freight wagons, one entire passenger train, per minute. Five tons of guns, six hundred of ammunition. Eight hundred tons of trousers, five hundred of T-shirts, six hundred of jackets. Ninety-seven tons of shoes, per minute, all day every day. Alarm clocks, fucking hell, half a ton of alarm clocks every minute. Ninety-five tons of toy cars, for Christ sake. Six thousand fridges, three and a half thousand freezers, eleven thousand personal computers – five hundred and twelve tons of cybernetics, eleven of them cybernetic arms – and a typical cybernetic arm weighs about eight kilos, so that's about one thousand three hundred and seventy-five cybernetic arms per minute. The logistics involved in keeping a capital world fed, watered, clothed, fuelled and stocked with, well, anything, are absolutely mind-blowing. Jesus, the rail-yards at that one starport contain more track than the entirety of Britain. And it's hardly like R'harash'gai't'rath Interstellar is the only commercial spaceport on the planet; there are six others as big, and hundred of smaller starports, Mount K'rath'han among them."

"I don't suppose they send the ships out empty?" Hermione checked. "What does Kendarat produce anyway?"

"Cargo ships usually leave loaded with a mixture of sewage, rubbish, compacted atmospheric pollutants, and scrap – pretty much anything you'd throw in the bin or flush down the drain, and before you say that sounds worthless, I know plenty of places that'll pay five hundred UK pounds per ton for a shipload of Kendarat rubbish." Harry told her. "The sewage, for example, is refined, decontaminated, and turned into fertiliser; the contaminants are rendered down into valuable raw chemicals, proteins, amino acids, whatever. Atmospheric pollutants – have you got any idea how much a megaton of pure carbon is worth? Scrap metal and plastics speak for themselves; a shattered warp coil can be melted down, refined, purified and turned into a brand new warp coil far more cheaply than tracking down the phlebotinum ore necessary to create one from scratch. Broken electronics are loaded with valuable materials, and this city produces four million tons of high-tech waste per day. You're wearing three hundred million pounds' worth of precious metals, high-tech synthetics, and exotic alloys, around your neck. Think about it."

Hermione's hand flew to her throat as her eyes bugged out. Harry caught her expression, and nodded.

"That collar is worth more than a jet airliner, kiddo." he said. "Throw in your wrist and ankle bands, and we're talking enough money to buy three brand-new Boeing 747's."

"What is one of those?" Tark asked.

"Earther atmospheric transport. Big one." Harry told him. "About the size of a Mentler Sunhawk, but a bit faster and with two tons higher payload. Of course, being Earther it's a touch overpriced and goes through fuel faster than a Legion on leave through beers."

"Oh, right."

"Aside from other people's junk, Kendarat's main export is starships, railway locomotives, and weaponry." Harry mused. "Of course, the raw materials have to be shipped in, but you can load a bulk freighter with over ten thousand high-performance railway locomotives, and there's one of those departs this system every thirty-five seconds. In the same period, fifteen ships loaded with guns and a hundred sixty loaded with ammo blast off. One brand new capital-class starship every five seconds; four smallships such as the Blink Dog every second. The production lines involved are something else; it takes longer to fill a Mentler DK colony rifle's magazine with bullets than it does to make the entire gun. Heh, you haven't seen heavy machinery running full-blast until you've seen gigantic railway locomotives rolling off a production line at a rate of one every sixty seconds, and then taking a look around you and realising it's just one out of thousands of production lines, stretching so far you can't see the other side of the factory for atmospheric haze, and that there are bulk freighters dropping off raw materials at the far end of the factory."

"My younger brother is a night-shift welder at Mentler's railroad motive-power production facility at T'rael'aisha Works." one of the drivers – who Hermione was pretty sure was named Zarie – remarked. "He states that that his line is able to turn a stack of machined castings and plate metal into a full-sized locomotive in seventeen minutes, twelve seconds. The line does not ever stop; there are locomotives operating on thirty thousand worlds that my brother and his team built with their own hands."

"The machines Zarie's talking about are thirty-five feet tall, twenty-seven feet wide, a hundred twelve feet long, and weigh nearly five hundred tons." Harry helpfully added; to Hermione's relief, she noted she'd got the name right. "They're capable of towing a six-thousand-ton freight train at one hundred twenty miles per hour on straight and level track. Oh, and it takes them four miles to stop a fully-laden train from full speed; if you're in the cab of one of those babies and you've got the throttle wide open, well, if you've seen an obstruction in the track you are going to hit it. And, frankly, unless there's half a mountain in the way, the loco is going to win. I've seen one of those locomotives, running flat-out, hit an animal the size of an elephant; the poor fucking thing didn't even make her flinch. Heh, when they got to the railhead they found bits of giant mutt-cow-moose thing barbecued on the radiator. Good eating."

"And my brother's line produces approximately twenty-four thousand of those machines per standard day." Zarie put in. "Enough to fill two Super Clydesdale bulk freighters, with locomotives to spare."

"And there's a nine-month waiting list on orders for Mentler railway locomotives." Harry added, giving Hermione a side-on grin.

"The sheer scale of all this..." Hermione murmured, shaking her head.

Tark let out a bellow of laughter, joined by several of the other truckers.

"Little one," the tiger-striped catman rumbled, "You have only just began to see the surface of it all."

"I guess there's a lot of accidents with all the vehicles out there." Hermione said, gazing pensively over the vast horde of party-ready Kenti.

Harry nodded. "Sadly, yeah. There is a fatal car-crash four times per second on this planet. The least house-fires burning at any one time in this city since the last reform of the R'harash'gai't'rath Fire Brigade is fifty-three." He paused for a moment. "Right now this moment, one hundred and twelve homes in this city are on fire. One hundred and thirty-six half-mile sections of road within the city limits are currently closed due to car crashes; no, make that one hundred thirty-seven. Six aircar crashes in the last ten minutes. Two trains have been involved in fatal accidents while we were sat here talking in this truck – one hit a car, the other ran some twit down. There's a gunfight in progress on Shorefront Way just north of the Asihave Corporation warehouse. That's unusual; there aren't many people up to no good during the Festival. Ah right, Frognorfian Mafia versus Nalfers again, go figure. Huh, sixteen thousand tons of illicit drugs have been seized in the last half-hour within city limits, along with five thousand twelve illegally-held weapons and one hundred fifty-seven stolen cars. Oops, a dead body just got found six hundred feet from here, gunshot wound to the upper chest. Ah right, some worthy smoked a kiddie-pedaller, nice shooting. If anyone works out who fired, he's drinking on me."

"Where?" Tark growled, sitting up and taking notice, as did most of the other truckers.

"Wreck Row. Some pile of junk parked between Scrapheap Nal's rig and Terry McAllan's latest banger. Oho, seems our kid Nal smelt something nasty, checked it out, and drilled the bastard right through the heart. Hey, someone let the bar crew know Scrapheap Nal's drinking on my tab tonight, okay?"

Tark nodded, with an air of deep satisfaction, and grabbed a microphone off it's hook.

"Breaker one-nine, breaker one-nine, this is the High Level Sunfall calling the R'targath'enar Beer Machine, have you a copy on me there S'rath'naia? Over."

"That is a big ten-four, Sunfall, you are coming out the windows. Over."

"Let the girls know our lad Scrapheap Nal just put a kiddie-pedaller in the dead-books; Nal is drinking on the West-Side Haulage Association tab tonight, and our lad Stormclaw says to tell him 'Good Shooting'. Over."

"Ah, ten-four on that; I will pass that along. Aha, I see Nal coming in looking a little excited. Beer Machine out."

With a deeply satisfied nod, Tark put the mike back on the hook.

"Trust Nal to make the galaxy a better place." one of the various truckers – Hermione was fairly sure he was called T'rael'aisha – muttered.

"With the things that man has seen..." Tark shook his head.

"Semper Fi, man. Semper Fi." Harry agreed, shaking his head; he caught Hermione's faintly bemused look. "Don't sweat it, kiddo. Scrapheap Nal's former Second Legion, he spent his Forces days on the Nalfer front. Anyone mistreats the ladies around Nal, they are dead meat; that kiddie-pedaller might as well have been signing a suicide note when he parked his pile of shit next to Nal's rig."

"Hey, you lot!" someone – a half-Kenti half-something man with blue hair and an immense beergut – shouted, sticking his head into the trailer, "Get your tails out here, they're about to start the ceremony!"

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The purpose of those titanic screens rapidly became clear; they were now showing two people Hermione recognised – Queen Rialia the Twelfth, and K'tarag'jal R'hara'tath, though the last time she'd seen them they hadn't been dressed like that. The Queen of all Kenti was wearing an ornate floaty white thing Hermione found reminiscent of the get-up she'd worn (for want of a better word) during their trip to Tatooinie, with a snow-white fur-lined greatcoat over the top and large quantities of bright metal jewellery; K'tarag'jal was wearing what couldn't be anything but full military dress regalia, making him look like something halfway between a Napoleonic-era general and a Nazi officer.

Each had a microphone in front of them, and there was a substantial flamethrower perched on an ornate stand between them.

"Come with me for a moment." K'tarag'jal said, his basso profoundo voice thundering from the gigantic speakers, and every last person in the massive park stood to attention with an earth-shaking rumble of booted feet.

"It is late in the evening of Tarrath the 3rd of Ava, 2735." The hulking catman continued. "You are a young R'harash'gai, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen years old. You are in T'rael'aisha – maybe by choice; probably not."

"Perhaps you are a landwarrior. You are sitting on a blacked-out ship in the heaving darkness, waiting for the order to sail. It is snowing like hell; it has been snowing for days. It has been snowing ever since you got off the transport plane; the Storm expressing the unease of the millions of warriors around you. You want to sleep, but you cannot; you are too worried about tomorrow. Everyone is on edge; even your Talon Alpha keeps clicking his claws together. Some of the guys are muttering prayers; others are checking their weapons. When the clock strikes midnight, you will be making your way over the last fifty leagues of the Sea of Islands, on your way to a date with destiny."

"And many of your friends will be coming home in plastic sacks."

"Maybe you are a seawarrior. You are sitting on an ice-cold anti-aircraft platform; dressed in every item of clothing you could scrounge up, trying to stay alert, scanning the blizzard for hostile aircraft, trying not to let your fingers freeze to the triggers. You heard one of the guys on D Deck was found frozen to death at his post last night; you just hope you are wearing enough to stop that happening to you."

"In later generations, many people will not even remember you were here; if they think of you at all they will believe you were back home, patrolling the coasts of the Prathi's homelands and living the good life on shore, despite the fact that all too many of your shipmates got blown to bits trying to get the men to the beach."

"Perhaps you are a strider pilot. You are sitting in your machine as it lies on the bottom less than a league from the beach; it is pitch black and hot as the River of Fire in here. You have been sat in this chair for nearly ten days; if it was not for the digital chrono on the dash you would have lost track of time long ago, and you are surrounded by the debris of your ration packs. You are just waiting for the gurgle of propeller noise and the sonar ping that will tell you to go. You have seen more combat than you like to admit; you had to knock out three tanks with a wrist launcher just to earn that skull on your shoulder, and with it the right to sit here in this baking darkness. The submersible equipment those clowns in Supplies clamped to your strider are bitch-ugly and clumsy as hell, but you cannot wait for the shock it will give the Temple goons when you come erupting out of the ocean with all guns blazing."

"It will be your job to knock out the beach defences; if you and your buddies cannot do it, the landwarriors are going to get cut to bits coming ashore."

"Or maybe you are a dropwarrior. At least you are in a comfortable room. You are checking your equipment for what seems like the thousandth time, wondering if there is anything else you can possibly bring that will give you the edge you need as you wait for your Talon Alpha to give the order to climb into the aeroplane you will be jumping out of in a few hours. You have jumped before; you had to do it ten times to earn that badge on your cap and those boots on your feet, but this time it will be different."

"This time you will be falling towards people who want to kill you."

"Maybe you are an airwarrior. You are sitting in the cockpit of your fighter, gunship, or bomber, repeatedly going over checklists, wishing they would just let you rev her up and go. Flying over the Planes of Death is routine stuff for you; you have been doing it every day for months, bombing the Temple's manufacturing power into radioactive dust or protecting your pals in the bombers. This time will be far from routine."

"In the morning, you will just be taking a quick trip over the Sea of Islands to knock on the fortress door – hard."

"But then, you could be a mage. You are stood in the ritual deck of your airtower as it waits at the foot of the runwaty; you are layering in spell after spell, wondering how many is enough, praying that you have not fouled up, knowing that it will be you and your colleagues who will have to keep the Temple's magi from tearing the assault force to battered scraps."

"You are all too aware that one slight mistake could spell doom for the entire offensive; you are praying you do not make that one mistake."

"Perhaps you are a netwarrior. You are crouched in front of your deck, drinking the latest in what seems like an uncountable number of energy drinks. The guy three cubicles over keeps jacking in and out; the click of the connectors going in and out of his neck has been pissing you off for hours, but you know the way you keep tapping a pen on your desk is probably pissing him off just as much, so you have not said anything. Some of the guys are coding addons for their icebreakers and firewalls as you wait; you would do it yourself if you were not so totally hyper. In a few short hours you will receive the jack-in order, and then you will be fighting for your life against the Temple ICE."

"And the lives of everyone you have ever known will be hanging in the balance."

"Or maybe you are a skywarrior. You are sitting in microgravity, listening to the repeated thump of missiles launching, watching them arc into space in a seemingly endless chain as they orbit in their precise patterns, all timed to hit their targets tomorrow morning – all at exactly the same moment. Your hands feel sweaty on the pistol grips as you scan the blackness for Temple orbital fighters or Temple ASATs, either of which could all too easily sever the lifeline of the pressure hull that is keeping you and your crew alive."

"If just one got through, you would be eating vacuum."

"Maybe you are not even a R'harash'gai. Maybe you are a N'era'kathi, looking for some payback for the embarrassment of the City of Ash three years ago, or a S'rath'naia or T'rael'aisha, ready to lay down your life for the homeworld. Or perhaps you are a K'tarag'jal or a G'ral'taraka, burning for some payback against the men who took your ancestral homeland away."

He paused, and this time he bowed his head. "Maybe, you are a R'hara'tath, heart blazing for vengeance for the slaughter of your kin these ten years past."

"Whoever you are, you have a piece of paper in your pocket, bearing the words of the one woman who controls more military forces than have been placed at the disposal of any one commander in known history."

"Anywhere."

"Ever."

"A woman who knows that it is her name at the bottom of the sheet, but it is your ass on the line out there."

"It reads:"

The Queen of all Kenti took over, the switch placed so precisely that there was no break in the train of speech.

"Orders of the Day, Ava 3rd, 2735; Prathi R'harash'gai High Command."

"Warriors of the First Combined Legion."

"You are about to embark on a righteous journey, towards which we have striven these many months."

"Your mission is to bring an end to Temple tyranny, and bring freedom to our oppressed brothers and sisters across our ancient world. This will not be an easy battle; the enemy is well-trained, heavily-equipped, fanatical and battle-hardened, and will fight savagely and without mercy."

"But things have changed since the Temple triumphs of 2731 and 2732. Our home front has given us overwhelming superiority on the land, in the air, in space and on the digital networks, both in manpower and in weapons of war."

"The time has come for the free peoples of Kendarat to march together to victory against the Temple oppressors, and the hopes and prayers of freedom-loving Kenti everywhere go with you."

"Let us together beseech the Holy Mountains to bring us victory. The price of defeat is unthinkable; we must succeed in this war."

"Good luck, warrior."

"Signed, High Alpha Rialia R'harash'gai."

K'tarag'jal swept a very serious look around the immesurably vast audience. "In the morning, you and your buddies are going to save the world; and eighty thousand years later, the Kenti living in that future you bled to secure will still be thanking you."

With that said, he activated the flamethrower's pilot light, and handed it to his queen with a deep bow; she smiled, aimed it at the great mound of wood that provided their backdrop, and squeezed the trigger; fire blasted from the nozzle, converting the mountain of dry timber into an inferno.

The vast swarm – millions upon millions of bright-eyed catlike men and women – shared a solemn silence as the Queen ceremoniously handed the flamethrower back to K'tarag'jal, who accepted it with another bow, then placed it upon the stand and turned back to the mike.

"WHY SO SERIOUS, KENDARAT? I THOUGHT THIS WAS A GOD-DAMNED PARTY!"

Hermione found herself roaring along with that immeasurably vast crowd; Harry grinned, and with a whine of hydraulics the unfamiliar trailer on his road-train unfolded itself, revealing a truly huge public address system hooked up to a self-contained DJ's booth – and, as the hammering beat of Ministry rolled across that section of Queen's Park, Hermione couldn't help but smile. Tark howled like some kind of massive wild animal, lit the Molotov cocktail he'd been waving around, and hurled it at the mound of wood the truckers had brought in, screaming "TO VICTORY!" as fire mushroomed from the impact point; laughing like an idiot, Harry hauled a pair of hand flamers out of his jacket and added their force to the jets of burning chemicals the assorted Kenti truckers were sending at the bonfire; flames rolled across the heap, steam lifting in great clouds from the rapidly-melting snow, and Hermione was forced to shield her face from the heat with her hands.

The rumble of an explosion echoed from her left as fireworks screamed into the sky, tearing into the clouds in bright bursts, and a departing heavy freighter added it's weight to the cacophony as it lit up it's afterburners in thundering salute to the mighty dead as, for just one night, the Thousand Kingdoms as a whole played with fire.

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Kendarat's day is a little longer than Earth's – just over twenty-five Earth hours in all. Thousand Kingdoms standard time is established by time at the centre of Coronation Square in downtown R'harash'gai't'rath, and therefore dictates the times of Kenti festivals.

The Festival of Fire takes place late in Kendarat's northern-hemisphere winter, from the moment that the last light of day falls on the tip of the war memorial at the heart of Queen's Park, and lasting for a full twenty-five-and-a-bit hours, until sunset the following day.

And, for Kenti everywhere, it is the greatest party of the year.

Throughout Thousand Kingdoms space, the workers of a superpower down tools for one full Kendarat day. The only businesses that operate during that period are street pedlars, bars, nightclubs, festival beer tents, food vans, hookers, hawkers, and the emergency services. Even Her Radiant Majesty's Armed Forces will, wherever possible, reduce operations to a minimum for that day as they remember the fallen.

All over Kenti space, street parties erupt, almost spontaneously. Every public place is thronged with people, bonfires are piled high in backyards and parks, and sixteen billion tons of fireworks per second are blasted into the skies of untold tens of millions of worlds across half a galaxy.

It outpaces even Smashdown Week on New Australia. Only the Old Atlantean's Feast of the Emperor's Acension has ever outdone the party that the trillions of subjects of Her Radiant Majesty throw on that night.

And the heart of that party is to be found in the city of R'harash'gai't'rath, on the planet named Kendarat, seat of the queens of the Thousand Kingdoms of Kendarat, far up the top-hundred list of greatest metropolises in the galaxy – a city that encompasses a half dozen square miles more land than the state of Texas, with more people packed in than call China home.

Over a hundred million DJ's booths, rigged up to four billion speakers, lit by a throng of holographic systems strong enough to conceal a world, pour the throb of bass-beats across that innumerable horde; the crowd consumes so much alcohol that, at any given moment, fifteen million beers are being poured. The party casts a pall of smoke across Kendarat's northernmost continent so deep that, thirty Kendarat days later, visibility is still impacted by the haze; the innumerable millions of tons of fireworks that blast their way into Kendarat's sky that night, along with the equally innumerable millions of tons of wood and fuel that go up in smoke, are enough to increase the local area's mean temperature by half a degree Celsius for the next three months.

It was round about midnight R'harash'gai't'rath time, and Hermione Granger was thinking about all of that as she lay, slightly drunk and blissed out on the spliffs someone had been handing round, in Harry's lap around one of the many and myriad camp fires, sheltered from the snow by the immense bulk of a big-rig, listening to the rumbly voices and bellows of laughter.

She smiled and chirped out a cheery greeting as she saw a familiar nine-foot sandy-furred titan emerge from the darkness.

S'tarak'hai R'hara'tath's eyes were gleaming, as was the spit-polished cap-brim and buttons of his dress uniform, as he strode out of the snow with a decidedly inebriated Tara hanging off his arm and a large crate of booze tucked under the other.

"Aha, Johnson. There you are." he rumbled, and Hermione caught the look of astonishment in the eyes of most of the truckers. "I have been searching for you all over."

Harry looked up from his beer and gave the massive landwarrior a dour look.

"Catboy," he said, "What the Hell took you? I told you we'd be at section D-11 near the custom truckers' fire."

"Alcohol." S'tarak'hai placidly stated. "Blame Tarai; it is her fault."

"Sniff my bum-hole, Rak." Tara complained, letting go of his arm and swaying around.

"Tarai, you are as drunk as a dropwarrior." S'tarak'hai informed her.

"Well of course I am drunk, it is the Festival of Flame you big idiot. Drunk and playing with fire is what everyone is supposed to be tonight." Tara earnestly explained, pilfering a bottle out of his crate.

S'tarak'hai gave her one of his vaguely bemused looks, shook his head, pulled up an unoccupied spare tyre, seated himself, and pulled her down beside him.

"Sit down before you fall down, woman." he instructed.

Tara giggled at him – once again, the universal translator translated this, successfully messing with Hermione's mind – and leaned against the side of him.

"You are nearly as drunk as me." she said.

"Cybernetic gyro-balancers are such a wonderful device." S'tarak'hai placidly remarked, a large and silly grin (and his eyes crossing) putting the lie to his feigned sobriety.

"Hey, you gonna pass that around?" Harry asked, pointing at the bottle Tara was now ferociously brandishing.

"Oh. Okay." She said, handing it to him; he took a slug, whistled, and handed it to Hermione, who (after a dubious sniff and sip) found herself coughing as the odourless liquid hit and proved to taste a bit like vodka on steroids.

"Who is your friend, Johnson?" Tark asked, sounding a bit dazed and repeatedly glancing at the rack of medals on S'tarak'hai's chest.

"Hmm? Oh, the big lug's S'tarak'hai R'hara'tath, he's with the First Legion, and the pretty girl's Tarai T'rash'gal, she's the navigator of a friend's starship." Harry replied. "Me and S'tarak'hai go way back; we've saved each other's asses a good few times." He glanced over at Tara and S'tarak'hai, then swiftly began introducing the various truckers; once everyone knew who everyone else was, they settled down to a good night's drinking and bragging.

As per usual where Harry and his mates were involved, the bragging got downright silly, tall tales were made up on the spot, the bullshit flew thick and fast, and Hermione eventually got drunk enough to join in, telling them an over-the-top story about escaping from a Sultan's harem armed only with a very large wet dog.

Eventually, at some insane time in the morning, she drifted off, lulled to sleep by the booze, the heat of the fire, the rumble of deep voices, the throbbing bass-beat of stereos, and the warmth of Harry's body as she'd curled herself up between his arm and his body.

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"Bad plan." Said Ron Weasely.

"What're you talking about, bro?" Fred asked.

Ron grimaced. "What, you ain't seen the way Harry reacts to people making him jump? Hadn't you noticed he's got shellshock?"

"Er, yeah, so I guess we don't wait till he wanders in and all jump out yelling surprise then." Percy dubiously agreed., striking that one off the list of suggestions.

"What the Hell is it with you lot and Morley?" Bill complained, even more dubious.

"What the Hell's your problem with Harry anyway, bone-head?" Fred asked, narked. They'd been skirting around that very question for the last half an hour.

"Frankly, I'm not comfortable with us associating with Morley so closely." Bill finally admitted. "The bastard's a stone-cold killer."

"SHUT YOUR GOB!" Ron roared, instantly on his feet. "The only reason Mum and Dad and Ginny can sleep safe at night is because of blokes like Harry!"

"What are you two talking about?" Arthur asked, befuddled. Ron kept glaring at Bill.

"Yeah, Harry kills people for a living." he said. "Like to know what sort of people he kills? Mob bosses. Psychos. Death Eaters. He kills the sort of people who think people like us are fresh meat! He's like an Auror and a Curse Breaker and an Unspeakable and a Tomb Raider and a Special Forces landwarrior all rolled into one. You know the bird who was here with him last Crimbo?"

"That Granger girl, right?" Bill checked.

Ron nodded. "Yeah, Hermione. She's sound. Heh, and about the only person who ain't realised she's gone on Harry is Harry. Anyways, some sick bastard attacked her."

"Language!" Molly chided. Ron, for the first time in his life, drummed up the guts to glare at his mum.

"Gimme a break, Mum. Anyways, she was hiding in the bogs being really upset and stuff, and so when that crazy bugger Quirrel let a troll into the place she didn't know. It would've got her if Harry hadn't, well, knocked it's fucking block clean off."

"Language!" Molly repeated.

"Mum, nobody's told you what that sicko Flint did to Hermione." Ron said. "Look, she was in the library, right? She always is. We, well, we took off down the pub for a few before grub, and, I wish I hadn't listened when she said she was too busy to come down the pisser with us, she's well into books and stuff, it's like she's reading all the time, and when she gets really stuck into a book there's no point trying to get her out the book because it won't work, so we just took off and downed a few, y'know, had a quick pint before grub was up. Well anyways, we got back in time for grub and she wasn't about, and Harry was wondering where she'd got to, and one of his birds said she was down the bogs really getting worked up about summat. So anyways, Harry looked a bit freaked and we kept on scoffing our grub, then the stutterbunny came barging in yodelling 'Troll! In the dungeons!', and the old far- uh, and Dumbledore said for everyone to scarper for the dorms, right? So anyways, we go split up from the others 'cause everyone was barging all over the place, and Harry suddenly went, 'Shit, Granger's in the downstairs toilets. Come on.' and he takes off and I went after, and right when we got down thataway the troll went mashing into the downstairs girls' bogs. Harry took off like a cat with a rocket up it's arse." He shook his head. "I've never seen anything move so bloody fast - he went into the bogs, there was this sort of wet noise and a crash, and when I got there the troll had went one way and it's noggin went the other. And there was Hermione, with shiners and stuff and her skirt fucked up, looking like a cat'd widdled in her grub. So anyways, Harry grabbed her and we scarpered back to Harry's digs, and that was when he worked out what had Hermione so mucked up."

"What happened?" Bill doubtfully asked.

Ron looked him straight in the eye. "While we were off down the pisser, that sick bastard Flint sneaked up on her, skelped her one over the head with a big stick, towed her off into a quiet corner, and raped her." he said. "Harry went _bonkers _when he worked it out."

"Yeah." Fred and George chorused, looking a bit ill.

"What'd he do to that wanker?" Ron asked. "I mean, I know Flint went for a Burton..."

"You_ don't _want to _know_." Fred bluntly stated.

George nodded firmly. "Flint _didn't_ go easy into that final goodnight."

"I don't think there was much of _any _of Flint what wasn't knifed, shot, kicked, or skelped one by the time Harry was done." Fred muttered.

"Wow." Ron muttered, then shook his head. "Not surprised, Harry fell for Hermione ages ago and I think the only one who hasn't worked it out is Hermione. Funny how birds like her can be so brainy but really slow-on-the-uptake about blokes at the same time."

"Yeah." Fred said. He still looked a bit green around the gills.

"Don't shite a dragon about." George put in. "For you are scrummy and bloody good with chilli sauce."

"Dragon?" Charlie asked, sitting forwards to wax lyrical about his favourite subject.

"Didn't you know?" Ron checked. "Harry's an Arcadian-cross weredragon."

"... holy shite." Charlie said.

"I've known for yonks." Bill remarked.

Arthur turned stunned eyes on his three youngest sons.

"That's quite some friend." he murmured.

"Yeah, he scares the shite out me sometimes." Ron said with a shrug. "But he's a sound bloke."

"He says he scares the shite out himself sometimes." Hermione remarked, having arrived in time to catch the last couple of exchanges and making an educated guess as to exactly who was being discussed. "What? Why's everyone looking at me in that tone of voice?"

"Ronald and the twins were just telling us about some goings-ons from last year." Molly carefully told her.

"Oh. Flint and that other troll, right?" Hermione checked, getting the rest of the idea.

"Uh, yeah." Ron said, his ears going red.

Hermione sighed and sat down.

"You lot don't know the start of it." she said. "But whatever, Ben says you're planning a bit of a surprise birthday party for Harry, right? I figured I'd drop in and see if I can help out."

"So.. what do you make of Harry?" Bill pounced.

Hermione considered that for a long moment.

"Good question." she said. "I guess... well, he's one messed-up guy. He's got the same sort of scary eyes as blokes Mum and Dad know who were in the Falklands. It's the look you see when you look a hero in the eyes, and I know just what that means; it means shellshock. Sometimes I wonder how he keeps going through it all; he's spent so long just wandering, taking it a day at a time, searching for a reason. Sometimes I wonder how he manages not to flip out; he's been at war for so long that the whole galaxy's a battlefield to him. I don't think he really knows how to trust anyone any more; about the only things he can let himself really trust are guns and his own reflexes."

"So why do you stick with him?" Bill asked.

"Have you ever been in a room with a killing machine that's decided it likes you and anyone who messes with you is dead meat?" Hermione asked him. "I have, in fact I am every time I'm in a room with Harry. He's... he's my guardian angel. He's scary as Hell, and when he goes all quiet and too calm it's like standing next to an unexploded bomb... but yeah, I know he'd do anything to protect me, and I know I'll move any mountain for him. I know he's real good at fooling people into thinking he doesn't care about anything but the money, but the fact of the matter is that he cares very, very deeply about people like us. He fakes that don't-give-a-damn attitude because it helps him stay alive, but my God man, have you seen the way his eyes go like they're made from ice when someone starts threatening one of his people?"

Bill nodded, as did most of the others.

"What of it?" Bill asked.

"That's the sort of expression Harry gets when he's about half a heartbeat away from going for his guns and shooting to kill, bro." Ron told him.

"... oh."

"I call it Harry's landmine look." Hermione said. "Because when he looks like that he starts being like a landmine – when he looks like that, anything that tries to step on him or his special people is as screwed as if they'd just stepped on a mine."

"What's so special about people like us?" Bill asked.

"He's a greater dragon, innee?" Charlie pointed out. "It's the hoarding urge, innit?"

Hermione nodded. "Well, that too. But, y'know, I think the main part of it is that we can see past the reputation. Most people can't see past the Sith Lord, the big scary dragon, but we can."

Bill slowly shook his head, thinking about it. "Hermione... what do you see when you look past the half-mad mercenary gunman?"

Hermione closed her eyes for a moment, her expression pained.

"I see a frightened little boy lashing out at a world that tried to kill him for no reason when he was a toddler, who's never had a friend in his life, and doesn't know the words to say to tell anyone he needs help." she told him. "Either that or a tired old man who's had ever last gram of trust slowly drained out of him by one betrayal after another until he's this sort of husk, but whichever way I know he's screaming inside and I know what he needs is someone he can depend on, someone who'll never betray him, someone who'll be there for him, someone to be his armour – and if I'll be that someone for him until Hell freezes over."

"But... why?" Bill asked.

"Because... because I love him, okay?"

All was silent in the Weasely kitchen/living room for several moments, then Ron let out an indelicate snort.

"You know what I reckon, Hermes?" he said, accepting the well-earned glower for the strongly-disliked shortening of her name. "I reckon you oughtta tell Harry that."

"I'm not good enough for him." Hermione told him, instantly angry. "Why would he want plain boring old me when... fuck sake Ron, he can have any woman he wants!"

"Bollocks." Ron told her, becoming miffed. "You're the only bird he really gives a monkeys about, any twat can see that. Well, it's not so much that, I mean I figure he cares about all his girls, but more about you and if they weren't okay with that he'd drop 'em like a shot. He already ditched that Sally-Anne Perks bird for saying stuff she shouldn't about you behind your back, he pulled a gun on her and told her to start running." He shrugged. "Lavender told me about it, I told her to shut her gob and keep private stuff private, then I made her tell me who else she'd told and I made bloody sure they were gonna keep their gobs shut about it."

"... why'd you do that?"

"Coz of the Death Munchkins, right?" Ron said, exasperated. "They've been looking for some way to get payback on Harry all year. Well, at least since, y'know, Flint got what woz coming to him. And I don't reckon they oughtta know what Harry's like about you, coz that way lies some rough shit and Harry going totally bonkers and I'm not sure the castle'd still be, you know, a castle afterwards. And I don't wanna see Hogwarts turned into a great big pile of smoking mess."

"You're not normally so perceptive, Ron." Ginny remarked.

"What? Bugger off, Gin. I know I don't understand birds, no bloke does, and I know I ain't the sharpest tool in the box, but I ain't _stupid_ and I saw the way Harry's face went when he realised what'd happened after that thing with the troll. It scared the _fuck_ outta me."

"Do you really have to use bad language all the time, Ronald?" Molly complained.

"Aw, sorry mum. It's just, y'know, I get really het up about this stuff."

"Het up about what?" asked a sardonic voice from the doorway.

"Well, like, that stuff with that troll and what-not, Harry." Ron said, immediately nervous.

Harry ambled over, and gave Ron's shoulder a nudge.

"Have I ever thanked you for backing me up that evening?" he asked.

"Well, not really, but y'know, it's cool, right?" Ron said.

"Don't sell yourself short, kid." Harry told him. "Following an unknown element to face down a berserk troll when you were a first-year Collegium student is one of the ballsiest moves I've ever seen. I know I had it covered, but you didn't know that. A guy's gotta respect guts – and if things had gone a little different, it could easily have been you saving Hermione's life. Long story short, let's just say I owe you."

"It wasn't nothing, man." Ron said. "That's what mates are for, right?"

"Damn right." Harry said, then turned to Molly and Arthur. "Hey. I know it's a bit late to ask, but you guys mind if I come in and sit down? I need to let you guys know about someone I'm bringing to the do tomorrow night."

"Of course, Harry; take a seat." Arthur said, and with a smile (and a companionable nod to Bill) Harry did so.

"Thanks." he said. "Look, first off you have to understand how vitally important it is that this remains strictly off-the-radar. The exact identity of the woman I'm bringing with me tomorrow is the sort of secret that could get people killed, as is exactly how she relates to me."

Bill blew out an enormous sigh.

"Slade," he said. "If I couldn't trust you, I'd be dead in a hole in the ground in Liberia."

Harry snorted. "Aw, no big. Hell, I don't blame you for not trusting me. Sometimes I don't trust me, so it's just common sense on your part."

"You're not making this any easier, Slade bloody Morley." Bill snapped. "Whatever. I know you can tell when people lie to you, and I can tell you one thing for damned certain. Working for Gringotts involves secrecy oaths, oaths of non-betrayal – the magically-enforced type. I've never spilled any of your secrets and I'll never be able to, unless you cease being a Gringotts customer, which isn't likely so long as Chairman Shatteraxe is breathing. It's a company policy."

"Yeah, I know that." Harry told him. "That was half the reason I trusted you back in Liberia. I know Gringotts' policy regarding customer privacy – hell, I helped Shatteraxe pin the details of the policy revision down – and then there's the fact you've got the surname Weasely. I can work with a Weasely. I can trust a Weasely just the same as I'd trust a R'hara'tath. Ron and the twins are the ones who know why I know that, and I don't think they've connected the dots – but it's there for all that."

"What are you talking about?" Molly asked, puzzled.

"I'm talking about the reason Shatteraxe Goldgleam Tallfellow hired Bill in the first place." Harry told her. "I'm talking about the reason Charlie got a paid job with the International Lesser-Dragon Preservation Foundation – a charitable organisation, I might note, primarily funded by Yours Truly. I'm talking about the reason I trust every redhead in this room with my life. In fact, I'm talking about the 1462 oath of alliance between Jason Potter and Augustus Weasely."

"What in the galaxy does that have to-do with you?" Percy blankly asked.

Harry sighed.

"The woman I'll be bringing to the do is named Lily Johnson." he said. "She's significantly older than she looks – she's a weretiger who Firsted at fifteen. And her surname is a pseudonym. We're going to have it on the record that she's my little sister who I'm violently overprotective of. That is of course bullshit – she's not my sister, she's my mum, who was mindwiped a little under seventeen years ago. Oh, and her surname happens to be Evans-Potter."

"My God, Morely!" Bill croaked, sounding a touch sick. "**You're The-Boy-Who-Lived?!?**"

"I hate that fucking nickname." Harry growled. "But, yeah, Harry James Sirius Logan Fawcett Evans-Potter to a whole load of stupid bastards."

There was a long silence, finally broken by Bill.

"I call bullshit." He said. "I knew you eleven years ago, and you sure as hell weren't a six-year-old."

"No, I wasn't; I was just short of my three hundredth." Harry said with a shrug. "That's what you get when you're always gallivanting in a Tardis."

"How in Merlin's name did you get a TARDIS?" Arthur squawked.

"Same way as anyone else; twenty years at Prydonia Academy." Harry explained. "Look, my eldest daughter happens to be the Old Atlantean Senshei of Time, and I still don't actually know who her mother is – I haven't met her yet. In fact, on my mother's side I'm descended from myself; Setsuna is my maternal great-times-ten-grandmother. A lot of you know about Lily's Apast's?"

"Professor Evans-Potter's tail, yeah, sure." Bill said, nodding.

"Well, it's the line of descent from Setsuna she got it from." Harry elaborated with a shrug. "And Setsuna got it from her dad. 'Hello, Harry. My name is Setsuna Meiuu, and I am your daughter' coming from a hottie older than me still ranks as the creepiest thing I've ever heard. Well, second to, 'This is it, kiddies. Welcome to Garg's Landing'. It's called a causality loop; I'm where the Apasts and the whole being-a-weredragon thing entered my own bloodline since I'm the dumb shit who decided going back in time a quarter million years was a great idea."

"I thought Lily was dead." Molly murmured.

"You were supposed to." Harry told her. "Everyone she knew apart from her grandpa was supposed to. Look, Voldemort – oh for fuck sake stop flinching, it's just a dumb anagram – well, he shot her in the head with a sawn-off double-barrel particle carbine. It fried a large portion of her brain. Hell, it should have killed her. I reckon she was just too bloody-minded to let go; she regenerated the damage, but it left her with the mind of a newborn baby. She's effectively a sixteen-year-old girl who's been stuck in the body of an adult weretiger since the day she was born."

"Wait a minute, what happened to the scar?" Ginny asked; she'd gone sincerely squeaky. "And... why the whole pretending not to be who you are?"

Harry gave her a dour look.

"It was getting me all the wrong sort of attention." He told her. "The kind of attention that involves people shooting at me. I skinned that part of my forehead with a Stanley knife after I Firsted and my regeneration came online, it healed without the scar but there's still a groove in my skull; if you press against the right part of my forehead, you can feel it."

"But… but why would anyone want to shoot you?" she blankly asked. "You're a hero!"

Harry snorted disgustedly.

"Hero? Aye right. OK, long story short, a wannabe Sauron decided he didn't like my face, so he blew up my old man, lobotomised my mum, and shot me in the head with a supposedly unstoppable spell only my skull turned out to be tougher than expected and it rebounded in his ugly fucking face viola the entire fucking universe thinks I'm Mr Hero when they should be thanking my fucking forehead, The End." He grimaced. "Problem is, Old Cheesy Armpits had a certain number of like-minded shitheels who weren't very happy about him getting blown into a wet smear, and there's always idiots with one-digit IQ's and itchy trigger fingers out to make themselves famous, and if you're a moron with a gun there's no easier way to become famous than drilling a famous person; just ask John Lennon. Oh yeah, my mistake, you _can't_ ask John Lennon, he got shot dead by a retard who wanted to be famous."

He pulled his muscle-T down, revealing a half-inch circular scar on his chest, between his heart and his left nipple.

"You'd be amazed how many dumb fucks with mono-brows and itchy trigger fingers are out there looking for statistics." he remarked.

"Where'd you pick that one up, Harry?" Hermione asked, touching the scar for a moment. It felt warm, smooth, hard, like a part of a Harry. She'd seen his scars before – they were all over him, across his back for the main part, most of them from Vernon Dursley, but he'd only got the one visible gunshot scar. Amerai regeneration had made sure of that. It had two halves – a half-inch circular dent in his chest, and a massive ragged circle from the exit wound on his back.

"This madwoman out on New Oz recognised me." he said. "That was before I got rid of the forehead scar. It was two months after I turned sixteen, right before I started the whole time-hopping thing, so a good three centuries ago for me, just under a year ago linear time. The voices in her head told her to make front-page by blasting me in the chest at point-blank range with her pet Desert Eagle. I've got a scar on my back as big as a plate; I bloody nearly didn't make it. After that, we decided to have my First Change artificially triggered; if that didn't set me off, nothing would. That and a little incident where this mad old hag-spirit used a True Name ritual on me are why I go by pseudonyms these days. Fuck sake, that wasn't the first time someone tried to kill me for being born, that was when Mouldy Voldie came a-callin', and it sure as Hell won't be the last. There's gun-toting idiots who want to be famous, there's Old Mouldy's multitudes of homicidal goons who bought themselves off after he had his close encounter with my forehead, and there's the multitudes of people I've pissed off over the years. All being the Ooh-Aaah La-De-Da Boy-Who-Gets-Hyphenated did for me was paint a bloody great target mark right between my eyebrows alongside that damn scar."

"I... just don't get it. How can anyone be so... so..." Ginny tried, but rapidly drifted off, words failing her.

"People are bastards, kiddo." Harry told her. "If they think something'll make them rich and famous, they'll do it, no hesitation, no regrets. And there's no easier way to make yourself famous than killing someone famous. Often, it's a good way to make yourself rich too; powerful people make dangerous enemies, and you'd be surprised how often a famous person's head on a plate is worth a literal fortune. Believe me, I should know – I've been the bogeyman of Clanspace ever since I put an explosive bullet into Kami Asinara's skull."

Bill proceeded to go rather grey.

"Slade Morley, Harry Johnson, Lord Stormclaw, the freaking Boy-Who-Lived... just how many identities have you got anyway?"

"Currently in-use?" Harry asked, cocking his head. "I maintain a minimum of five hundred identities at all times, about half of them fully backed up – paper trails, old friends, teachers, you know the drill. A Tardis and a few disguises makes for a very direct and very functional alibi generator, especially when you combine it with chucking gun barrels into a blast furnace. I know for a fact there are two of me on this planet right now, and another three elsewhere in the galaxy; there may be more, but I haven't been those ones yet; for me, the time I stuck my head in here last week was a year and a half ago."

"But... why?" Molly asked.

"Several reasons." Harry told her, shrugging one shoulder. "Firstly, I have a large number of identities to maintain. Secondly, I am an expensive and very bloody busy mercenary. Right now, I've got one hundred fifty-six job offers pending acceptance; I intend to have fifteen of them done by this evening, and I also intend to have two of the would-be employers dead within the hour. What? Hey, they tried to hire me to kill people I like, and an enemy of my friend is someone I'll take pleasure in exterminating. One of them is someone who's called a hit on your husband. Would you prefer me to leave the son-of-a-bitch to hire some other mercenary who'll go through with it?"

"Who?" Arthur asked, suddenly extremely serious in a way that reminded Ron, the twins, Bill and Hermione of Harry's land-mine look.

"Morrigna remnant." Harry told him.

"Ah."

"Well, I'd better get moving. Places to go, things to do. I'll catch you lot tomorrow."

"Yeah, seeya man." Ron said as Harry rose to his feet.

Hermione watched Harry go, wilting a bit.

"Hermes," Ron remarked. "Sod it, if you don't tell him I bloody will. This is getting silly."

"Mind your own business, you ginger Liverpudlian twit, or I'll give you such a kicking your great-grandkids'll be born bruised!"

"What? Hey, no need to bite my head off!"

Hermione's response consisted of a glower as she rose to her feet and followed Harry out.

The next morning when Hermione got around to getting up and wandered over to see what Harry was up to, she found him working on restoring the boltgun he'd bought on the Cowabunga; he had it in pieces and was tut-tutting over the damaged breech block, clicking his tongue and shaking his head and making disapproving noises.

Seeing as how he wasn't in a talkative mood, she picked a random book from his bookshelf, settled herself down on one of his sofas, and started reading.

About half an hour later, they received an interruption.

"What the Hell is-"

Harry whipped round with his guns out as soon as he heard the voice.

Jeff Granger recoiled away from him, staring in blank shock at the brace of E-Mags, one of which was levelled at his heart and the other at the end of his nose.

"Oh, it's you. Do yourself a favour and knock next time." Harry remarked, holstering the guns.

"What in the fuck is your problem?" Jeff growled.

"Armed people who want me dead." Harry told him. "What do you want?"

"I want to know what the Hell's going on with you and my daughter."

Harry considered that, then sat back down with a snort.

"Long story." He said. "Take a seat. You're going to have to hear me out; you are _not_ going to like what I've got to say, but there isn't a hell of a lot of choice."

"This doesn't sound good." Jeff stated. Harry nodded and handed him a beer.

"That's because it's not." He stated. "First thing you need to understand is that time travel is not only possible, it is a day-to-day fact; I own a well-maintained Tardis, one of the more versatile and reliable time machines, and my eldest daughter, Setsuna Meiuu, happens to have the most powerful temporal engineering device ever constructed affixed rather firmly to her soul."

"I'll take your word for it." Jeff said, cracking the beer. "A guy calling himself Genma Saotome told me the basics… First off, I want to know what the hell the deal is with that ironmongery she's wearing."

Harry nodded.

"Hey Hermione." He said.

"What's up?" she asked, looking up from her book in a distracted manner. "Oh, hi Dad."

"Mark your place; this may take some time." Harry said, sitting down beside her; she gave him a faintly puzzled look, marking her place with a slip of paper and dumping the book on the coffee table.

"Your old man wants to know what the deal is with your stabilisers." Harry told her.

"I wondered how long it'd take." Hermione said; Harry nodded and idly brushed her hair out the way so Jeff could see the silver plate with it's multilingual lettering.

"First off, Arcadian High Draconic. It's the political language of the galaxy; any diplomat or cop worth his salt understands High Draconic, same goes for judges, lawyers, business executives… you get my drift." He said, tapping the topmost line of lettering. "Second off, Kentare." And his finger moved down to the second line. "The Thousand Kingdoms of Kendarat are a political and military-industrial powerhouse; Kentare is the native language of a galactic superpower. Third off, Seletic." On to the third line. "Scots Gaelic is a dialect of the Seletic language. It was the language of the ancient Celts, and the Hardaks they were descended from – and courtesy of the Hardaks, it's the native language of the Amerai. Nearly everyone in Clanspace – that's a vaguely spherical area about six thousand lights across centred on this system – speaks Seletic. Last but not least, we've got Old Atlantean, also known as Imperial Gothic." And he tapped the bottommost line of lettering. "It's the common language of the Old Atlantean Imperium, the most powerful nation the galaxy has ever seen, it's the ancestor of nine-tenths of the languages in known space, and it's the galactic standard trade and navigation language. It sounds a bit like a bastardised form of Latin." Harry let go of Hermione's hair and sat back; he gave Jeff a hard and unnervingly serious look.

"Those four languages are the commonest in the galaxy. This galaxy is a multilingual place; only one in a thousand people don't speak at least two languages, and nearly half the population fluently speak three or more. It's not unusual for someone to be able to have an intelligent conversation in twelve or more languages. Ninety percent of the galactic population can read at least one of those little markings, Granger. That means ninety percent of the galactic population will take a long hard look at that collar and _back the fuck off_. There's a _bloody good reason_ 'Never piss off a dragon, for you are crunchy and taste good with chilli sauce' was coined as a saying."

"What the Hell's that got to do with anything?" Jeff snapped.

"Each line of lettering on that collar says, in one of those four languages, something roughly translating as 'This human is property of Lord Stormclaw the Magnificent; to interfere with her is to invite the immediate visitation of Death'." Harry stated. "Lord Stormclaw the Magnificent is as it happens me."

"Are you saying you've made her into a bloody SLAVE you son-of-a-" Jeff roared, erupting onto his feet.

With a noise like a whipcrack, a handgun seemed to teleport into Harry's fist; there was a click as the hammer dropped, then silence. The gun was levelled at Jeff's head.

"Don't ever take that attitude with me again, Earther." Harry said, and suddenly his draconic nature was very apparent. "Or next time there'll be a cartridge in the breech."

He stood up, placing a hand on Hermione's shoulder.

"Your daughter means two things to me." He continued. "Six months after she was born, only a week after I'd got a proper watch on her, I was approached by an agent from the Thousand Kingdoms' Bureau of Counter-Terrorist Operations. The agent in question passed on a message from Queen Rialia the Twelfth; if I _ever_ let Hermione out of my control, there's a bullet in the Thousand Kingdoms armoury with her name on it. Three days ago, Hermione successfully materialised, contained, and safely dispersed, a quantum singularity. What a fully-armed ballistic missile submarine is to Earth's politics, this lil' girl is to galactic politics. Because I've got her, I am a one-man nuclear state. This pretty lil' girl's going to enable me to exterminate the worst terrorist in known space, and get payback on the worthless fuck who killed my father in the same shot. Old Tom Mouldy thinks he's so fucking tough; just wait till the bastard gets a load of a living supernova. That's the first thing Hermione means to me; I'll admit it, I'm a gun maniac, and she is the most powerful weapon I'm ever likely to possess."

"Harry, I know you're pissed off at him right now, but couldja please stop pointing that gun at my dad's head? I know he doesn't use it much, but he'd look kinda fucked-up without one." Hermione requested.

Harry glanced down at his .50 Desert Eagle, blinked, and dumped it on the sofa beside him.

"Sorry. Reflex." He said.

"S'ok, no harm done." Hermione said with a shrug. She turned her attention to her dad.

"Dad, please just, well, lay off Harry about this, OK? I knew pretty much what the writing on my collar meant when I put it on, and I'm still not sure whether I'm cool with it, but I know Harry cares about me. I can tell when he's telling the truth; his voice goes quiet and tired, and he gets this look like he's staring off into eternity, and he looses the flippant attitude."

"Damnit, Hermione; when the Hell did you get so good at reading me?" Harry complained, sitting back down with a flop.

"I'm not really sure." Hermione said. "I think it was about the same time as you actually started opening up to me." She turned her attention back to her father. "We're a team, me and Harry. He leaves me out the loop a lot of the time, and he always seems to be trying to piss me off, but when the cards are down… I trust him with my life."

"This ain't over, Johnson." Jeff growled.

"Over?" Harry picked the Desert Eagle back up, slotted it's magazine in, and pulled the slide. "It was over before she was born, you stupid fuck." He casually aimed it at Jeff's cranium. "Or do you really want half an inch of lead in that empty fucking skull of yours?"

"Harry!"

"Your daughter is _mine_." Harry flatly stated. "I _own her_, mind, body, and _soul_. She's been mine since the day she was _conceived_, she'll be mine till the day she _dies_, which is going to be a _hell_ of a long way into the future if I've got anything to do with it, and I don't give a flying _fuck_ what you say."

"HARRY!"

"This is a mean old galaxy we live in, boyo. Dog eat dog. Strong dominate weak. Might makes right. You either get the fuck out the way, or I drill you; your choice. Never say no to a dragon, Earther; we _never_ forget _anything_. You Earthers say possession is nine-tenths of the law; well, out here in the real universe, it's one hundred percent of the law. I'm bigger than you so I'm higher in the fucking _food chain_."

"**HARRY**!"

"I can make you temporarily mute with three words, Hermione. Do yourself a favour and quit yelling at me." Harry remarked, putting an arm round her.

"Asshole." Hermione muttered.

Harry smirked and put his hand between her legs.

"Yeah, an' you love it, baby."

"Actually, I don't, but there isn't much point saying so, is there?"

"Never know your luck." Harry remarked, moving his hand closer to Hermione's groin. "So, Jeff; gonna back off, or am I gonna pull this trigger?"

Jeff gave him a hate-filled glare, and went storming off back through the subspace door.

Harry and Hermione watched him go, then Harry shook his head.

"Well," he said, "That went better than I expected." His hand was now completely covering Hermione's crotch.

"What? It was a bloody _disaster_!" Hermione complained.

Harry sighed and shook his head, safed the gun, and put it down.

"Fathers tend to be a bit overprotective of their daughters, kiddo." He said, sounding sad and tired. "Especially when the daughter's had an experience like what Flint did to you; once bitten, twice shy. I sure as hell don't blame your dad for getting worked up about anything he perceives as a threat to you; been there, done that, got the fucking T-shirt. I'm not going to take any shit from him, but I've got a certain level of sympathy – that's why he's still breathing and hasn't got any broken bones."

He shook his head.

"But, as much as he may dislike it, the fact remains that you are my property and nothing your father can do will change that."

"I'm not some plaything, Harry Johnson." Hermione complained, glaring at him. "Don't you ever think I'm your slave. It's wrong, and I won't have any part of it."

Harry stared at her for a long moment, then sighed.

"Hermione," he said, "We've been over this subject over and over and over again, and you are really starting to piss me off. You sound like a stuck record; what the Hell is it going to take to get you to permanently drop it?"

"Harry, slavery is just _wrong_." Hermione growled. "That won't change."

Harry muttered something impolite-sounding in Klingonaase (though admittedly, anything said in that language sounds impolite) while rapidly shaking his head.

"For the love of... Which part of this expression makes me look like I give a fuck?"

"... what?" Hermione blankly asked.

Harry shrugged one shoulder.

"I know you're not going to like my opinion." he said. "I kept giving you chances to let it rest, and you didn't bite, so it's time I laid it out for you."

He drew in a deep breath.

"I. Do. **Not**. Care."

"You... Harry, people have rights. That's inherent, it'll never change."

"People who don't fight for their 'rights' lose them." Harry said, voice dead level. "That's inherent. It'll never change. A certain sizeable metal paladin keeps saying freedom is the 'birthright' of all sentient beings; that's why I call the daft bastard Overoptimistic Prime. How this galaxy, and in fact this planet, works and has always worked is, he who has the most firepower makes the rules. 'Rights' can take a fucking number, I've got bigger fish to fry. You think barely-sentient globs of biomass being treated as the property they are is the worst thing in the fucking galaxy? If that was the worst of our problems the galaxy would be at peace and I'd be out of a job."

Hermione didn't reply, so he continued.

"Every civilisation is a system, and every system has rules. Here on Earth, in your home nation, you do not have the 'right' to blow away anyone who tries to kill you – unless you're one of the government's pet enforcers, also known as 'police'. It is not a pretty system; just like the rest of this shit-hole galaxy it is built on might making right. The difference is, the people at the top are more honest about it out there, more likely to use guns and chains than those useless bits of paper and scrap metal we call money. Want to know how many 'rights' you've got and what they are?"

She still didn't reply. He took that as assent.

"Jack and shit. And Jack left town."

"Harry!"

"Oh, I'm not talking about because I own you, in fact what 'rights' you do have are directly from belonging to me. I'm talking about because you're an Earther human mage and your parents are not purebloods. Mundane Earther law no longer applies to you because you're supernatural. Magical Earther law applies to you, and by that you're in a worse position than apartheid-eara black South Africans. Your parents are even worse off – since they couldn't afford and didn't know about magical education, they're legal non-entities. Want a say in government decisions? Tough shit, you don't own a hereditary seat on the Wizengamot. You're a peasant in a feudal society. A mundane-born Earther mage has two options; spend their entire life slaving their guts out at some soul-crushing subsistence-wage job or emigrate. Or, if you're female, become a concubine for some pureblood or another in the hope that your kids in twenty or so generations will manage to marry into money."

"I'm amazed there hasn't been a revolution."

"Oh, there has, plenty times. That's what half the 'dark lords' in the book were; effectively, freedom fighters. They won a few times, but as any idiot can tell you, today's triumphant freedom fighter is tomorrow's Big Brother. The guy leading escaping slaves today is the guy who'll be holding the whip tomorrow, and when that don't happen, ever heard of a counter-revolution?" Harry shook his head. "Any successful system has checks and balances built into it. Not to protect the people at the bottom of the pile; to protect the system itself. Like to know what magi 'civilisation' does to people who buck the rules?"

"... what?"

"It buries them in a hell-hole called Azkaban. If ever you wanted proof that there's such a thing as a fate worse than death, look no further than there."

"You what?"

"First off, it's a deathworld. That means, every living thing on that worthless dirt-ball thinks anything that moves is dinner. Second off, it's smack in the centre of the deadest thaumatic dead zone in Clanspace. And third, well... ever heard of a Dementor?

"... I can't say I have."

"Be grateful for that, kiddo. It's a form of corporeal undead, similar to a class-three zombie, but better preserved and possessed by a sub-demonic entity called a sluuakh. Those fucking things are emotional vampires, and not the good sort. They can feed on pretty much any emotion they so choose, but it seems they prefer the 'flavour' of despair, and they're pretty damn good at causing it – it's like they exude this palpable aura of depression. That said, they can't sate themselves off emotions – oh no, to sate themselves they need to eat a despairing soul."

"... oh, God..."

"Yeah. And that's what Azkaban calls a prison guard. A life sentence in that hellhole is usually about five to ten years, between the prisoner not being able to summon the will to take care of themselves, absolute lack of hygiene or medical attention, starvation level diet, and usually-polluted water. The longest anyone's ever lived when in that hole is thirty-seven years. About a third of all prisoners die within five weeks of being ditched there; anyone who actually manages to survive their entire sentence is going to be decidedly insane when they get out – there's only about a dozen ex-cons per century ever make it that far, out of them maybe two will ever be able to function again, and not one of them has ever been completely sane again. Take Hagrid – he spent six years in there and his grasp on reality's been downright shaky ever since. And then there's the fact it's about the closest to escape-proof of any jail in the galaxy; there's only a couple hundred people have ever broken out of there, and only one of 'em – John Kirth – did it without any outside assistance. I've been trying to find out how he pulled it off for a while; I broke someone out of there a couple centuries back, and believe me, it wasn't easy."

"Haven't these people ever heard of, well, human rights?"

"Yes, and they find the whole idea unfavourable. After all, if they did that, they wouldn't be legally entitled to exploit the hell out the 'lower classes' and shitcan anyone who tries to rock the boat." Harry caught Hermione's expression, and visibly winced. She was looking lost, confused, like someone had shot the foundations out of under her world.

"I'm sorry, kiddo. I really am. I hate having to give good people bad news."

"I... I guess it isn't really your fault, Harry." she said, resting her cheek against his chest as she tried to anchor herself. "I... with my aura, I'd have been up to my neck in this anyway."

"You're wrong about that, Hermione." he told her. "After we discovered you, I and a few of my pals had a lengthy discussion about you. Something stank. What the Hell were the chances of someone as powerful as you just randomly turning up? It's only happened two times before; Rob Zombie and the Emperor. You know that saying about how once is weirdness, twice is coincidence, and three times is enemy action? You can bet your eye teeth we looked into it. Sure enough, there were signs of genetic engineering, signs of selective breeding. It's no coincidence you were born; someone did a lot of extremely painstaking work to make sure you came to be."

He sighed and shook his head.

"It took me fifteen years. Whoever I was searching for seemed almost precognitive, it was like he'd planned for every possible move I might make. But I eventually found him."

"Who was he?" Hermione asked, getting more and more creeped out.

"Me."

"wha...?"

"Time Lord, remember. He was me, Hermione. I created you and I still haven't entirely figured out why."

"How's that work?"

"Because I haven't done it yet." He shook his head. "I'm still trying to figure out why... and the thing that worries me is I'm starting to get a pretty good idea of it."

"So... why?"

"Why would a guy like me want a weapon like you? And before you say that the only thing a weapon like you is good for is taking over the world, I don't want this mess; the bastards who're running it are the ones who deserve it because whoever's running it will be first against the wall when the next revolution comes."

"... I guess you mean aside from, well, the whole gun-maniac thing."

Harry chuckled, but he sounded a bit wan.

"That too."

"So... why?"

Harry didn't reply for several moments, obviously deep in thought, then he sighed and shook his head.

"Hermione, you've got the raw destructive power of an exploding star. That, not to put too fine a point on it, scares the ever-living shit out of me."

He sighed again.

"The only thing that'd get me searching for something that makes a Genocyber look like a cherry bomb is if there is an enemy coming that I cannot stop any other way." he said. "Enemies like that... are never good news. They're the sort of enemies where, if I fuck up, galaxies die."

"You're saying...

"I'm saying... Hermione, I am starting to believe that you were created to save the world."

Catching her expression, he grimaced.

"I'm sorry, kiddo. I really am. It's a hell of a thing for me to lay on you... but, hell with it, you deserve to know the truth. After all..."

He stopped and shook his head.

"After all, if you die in the process, it'll make the whole fucking thing completely worthless."

"Harry, the world is worth a lot more than me."

"Look at me, kid. Look me in the eye." Harry snarled, hands becoming painfully tight on her shoulders, and she snapped her head round and up, staring into the mad Avrea Kedavera-green whirlpools he called eyes.

"You." he snarled. "Are worth more than every fucking dirtball in this galaxy PUT TOGETHER. Give me a choice between you and this fucked-up mean old galaxy and the galaxy can whistle Dixie. Without you I would be NOTHING. You hear me, girl? NOTHING. Don't you ever fucking tell me ANYTHING would make it worthwhile to lose you! You are MINE. Forever and a day. And you WILL outlive me."

Just as suddenly as it had arrived, the intensity had vanished.

"Everyone's got to have a reason to keep going, kiddo." he said, sprawling back on the sofa and staring at the ceiling, "And I found one stood on a railway platform in London just under a year ago." The maniacal light came back to his eyes, and his voice dropped to the inhuman snarl he used when in dragon form. "I'll make this galaxy worthy of having you in it if it's the last thing I fucking do."

"It wouldn't be worth being in if it didn't have you in it, Harry." she said, and the energy seemed to drain out of him; he slowly slumped over on the sofa, landing with his head in her lap, his eyes tired, and a strangely un-Harrylike soft smile on his face.

"You and me, Hermione m'girl. You and me. Think of the possibilities..."

"Together." she said, running one hand through his hair.

"Forever." he told her, taking her other hand in his.

They sat in silence for a few moments.

"Harry... a while back you told me never to point a gun at anything I'm not willing to kill..."

"Yeah. I did."

"Does that rule apply to you too?"

"Applies to anyone; it's the second rule of firearms safety."

"... so you'd be willing to kill my dad?"

"There is only one person in this universe or any other who I would not be willing under any circumstances to kill. Sometime, the only thing you can do for someone is finish the job."

"... oh."

"Yeah." Harry blew out a sigh and heaved himself to his feet as he realised it was just about time to go pick up his mum before heading to the Weasely place. "C'mon, sei kara." She too rose, and took his hand in hers; he glanced down at her, and one corner of his mouth twitched up into a quirky little grin;

"Let's get out there and change the world."

**It's all over, you can come out now.**

**Top Dog Will Return, In,**

**Enter the Fnords Book 2:**

**Harry Johnson and the Deathtrap Girl.**

"Harry, what the fuck is 'the good type' of emotional vampire?"

"What, never heard of a succubus?"

"... pervert."

-/-/-

Once again, I have removed the end theme from this FF.N version; this time, it's Runrig's 'Hearthammer' from the album 'The Big Wheel'.

Doghead Out.


End file.
